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To gratify my own feelings, and, I hope, those 
of a few surviving friends, and of an extending 
family, I have made in this little volume a se- 
lection of verses written on several occasions 
by my father, Sir Hardinge Giffard. The most 
considerable, "O: nge," published in Dublin 
in 1796, anonymously, (but not unavowedly) 
obtained, considerable popularity, and went 
rapidly through several editions. Some of the 
others appeared in periodical papers. A few 
were privately printed during my father's resi- 
dence in Ceylon and Lyme Regis ; Courtenay 
and Carew, and Giffard's Leap, I found in ma- 

So fugacious are personal and political allu- 
sions, that notwithstanding the great vogue 
and popularity of " Orange, " there are some 
passages which even those who read it at its 
publication, and whom I have consulted, have 
not been able to explain satisfactorily — but 


these are but few, and the general vigor of the 
verses, and the obvious pleasantry of the origi- 
nal notes, will I hope compensate for some 
occasional obscurities, which, in all such 
works, the lapse of a very few years must 
inevitably produce. 

The other poems are chiefly of a local and 
personal interest — and though they may have 
little attraction for the general reader, will, I 
hope, be received and read with interest by 
those to whom I destine the very few copies 
which I have had printed : and the rather as 
I have added to them some verses, by the first 
known poetess of our family, as well as some 
by the last, 

E. G, 


llth March, 1843. 


Part I. 


On the Memory of Lady Joan Wyndham 3 

Orange, Canto 1 5 

„ II 17 

„ HI 35 

Notes . , 53 

The Rats 59 

Macdermot's Ghost . . .... . 64 

Part II. 

Lyme Regis 1 

Courtenay and Carew 29 

Giffard's Leap .. .. 41 

To Fame 46 

On visiting Brightley 47 

The Laurestinus, Sweet Pea, and Oak . . 49 

Invasion of Ireland .. .. .. .. 51 

To Eliza 53 

On being in Kildare 54 


The Pilgrim 5 " 



Catherine . . . . , . . . . . . . 58 

Ode for the Jubilee 59 

On leaving Dundrum 65 

Roncesvalles 67 

St. Michael's Mount 70 

Peace . . . . 75 

Arthur of Dangan 76 

The Andaman Boy 78 

Dundrum, 1817 81 

To Harold 83 

St. Helena . . 88 

Kandi 90 

Home 90 

Wedded love 91 

Bawl Blockheads, bawl 93 

Sirmio 94 

To Harriet 95 

July 23rd, 1822 . 97 

„ „ 1823 98 

„ „ 1824 .. 99 

„ „ 1825 100 

„ „ 1826 ..101 

On the illness of George III 102 

Ode to poverty 104 

On the King's Birthday 105 

Ode to Care 109 



Morning . .. 109 

Moonlight .. ..Ill 

Farewell for ever .. ..Ill 

Reflection .. .. ^ 112 

Chapter of Kings .. .. 113 

Shakespeare 116 

To my Father's Picture 119 

On Anna s Second Birthday 122 



Page 30, Note on line 277, for ingenius read ingenious, 
,, 52, line 352, for Osbory read Ossory. 


Page 19, line 2, for note read float. 

19, line 11, for shawments read strewments. 

20, line 8, for hour read power. 
22, line 23, for would real could. 

33, line 23, for does read dares. 

34, line 7, for feet read toot. 

35, line 9, for throw read thrown. 

37, line 30, for wandering read wondering. 

38, Note, for tooieaux read torteaux. 
43, line 17, for spot read sport. 
77, line 12, for strongest read strong St. Sebastian. 
102, line 4, for form read foam. 
102, line 23, for dispair read despair. 
122, line 19, for pillow read pillow'd. 


Part I. 



THE first of the family of Giffard of whose poe- 
tical talents we have a specimen was Margaret, 
daughter of Colonel John Giffard, of Brightley, 
whose verses on the death of her Grandmother 
Joan, daughter of Sir Henry Portman, of Or- 
chard, in Somersetshire, who died in 1633, were 
written before she was eighteen, and with those 
of my Father and eldest Sister, form the contents 
of this little volume. 



Two orchards* had a several right to thee, 
A Portman' s graft, a Wyndham's fruitful tree. 
The one gave her life and being, but the other, 
Made her a fruitful wife and happy mother ; 
She on her Orchard, like a dew distilled, 
And all her house with a rich plenty filled. 
Wisdom she made her guide, and Providence 
The measure of her fair and large expense ; 
So that the fountain never w^as drawn dry 
Of her most constant hospitality. 
She skilfully putting the same in cure, 

* Sir John Wyndham, her husband, resided at Orchard 
Wyndham, in the county of Somerset, and her father, Sir 
John Portman' s seat was at Orchard t in the same county. 

And hence she made her Knight's dear heart secure. 

The greater is his loss, but that he knew, 

The sun at length exhales the fruitful dew. 

But no less happy in her motherhood, 

She had a numerous issue, and a good, 

For nine brave sons she educated saw 

In arts, in arms, in courtship and in law.* 

Which they assumed not, as is now the fashion, 

Only for refuge, but for recreation : 

They needed not those helps for to increase 

Their private portions, but their country's peace. 

Besides six daughters whom her prudent care ? 

And pattern framed as virtuous as fair, 

And all in freshest flower of their age, 

She saw with comfort joined in marriage. 

By whom, to make her happiness the more, 

She saw her childrens' childrens happy store. 

Faithful and happy, fruitful, full of days, 

God took her hence, with her immortal praise : 

For 'twas not fit an Orchard here below, 

Should keep the tree that should in Eden grow ! 

Margaret Giffard. 

* Sir Hugh Wyndham, the sixth son, was a Judge of 
the Common Pleas, and Sir Wadham Wyndham, the se- 
venth son, was one of the Justices of the King's Bench, 
and father of Thomas Wyndham, Lord Chancellor of Ire- 







Representative in Parliament for the 

City of Dublin, 1798, 

A Loyal Protestant Gentleman, 



WHY am I silent ? — Why, in times like these, 
When Vice and Treason lord it as they please — 
When G (rattan) every hour our ears assails, 
With his mad grand- sire's Jacobitish tales, 
And with forgotten slanders, seeks to draw 5 

Contempt upon the honours of Nassau — 

Line 4. It is not to be supposed, as some have idly done, 
that this renowned orator had no grand-father. I remem- 
ber him very well, a mad Jacobite parson, hanging upon 
the humours of Dean Swift, and feeding the spleen and 
weakness of that great genius. — P. R. 

When C (urran) blasted, black with every crime — 

The pimp, the cuckold, parasite, and mime, 

"Without one claim to worth or honour, tries 

A patriot on the vulgar voice to rise— 10 

When public virtue is not found to soar, 

Beyond such things as F (letcher) T (ighe) and 

H (oare.) 
When conquering William's long established fame 

Sinks into rivalry with Grattan's name. 

In vain old Boyne beheld his silver flood 15 

Stain'd with commingled streams of kindred blood, 
In vain did Aughrim's wild and barren plain, 
Tremble and groan beneath the heaps of slain — 
In vain did Limerick's now dismantled wall, 
See the last hopes of luckless Stuart fall — 20 
Vain were the glories of La Hogue, and vain 
The countless blessings of three George's reign- — 
Since fell Democracy, of Gallic birth, 
Roams from her native den to plague the earth ; 
And brutal Bigotry on Erin's shore, 25 

Hails her with savage yell, and kindred roar, 
Demands her aid, a fellow fiend to save, 
And snatch expiring Popery from the grave ; 

Line 1, C . Who this means I am not able to guess ; 

certainly no living character can deserve such attributes. 

Line 12. F r, T e, H e, The first of these 

blanks is a real name, being intended to disguise a great 
man, who had a pretty smattering of oratory in the late 

parliament. What T e, means, I am equally ignorant 

of; and as for the last, I am inclined to guess it should 
rhyme to soar. — George Faulkner , jun. 

Lines 15, 17, 19, 21. Boyne, Aughrim, Limerick, and 
La Hogue, are the names of rivers in which great victories 
by land and sea were obtained by King William, of glorious 
memory ; he having been killed on a sorrel horse on his 
way to Kensington. — G. F. jun. 

Line 22. George I. II. III. of whose reigns a very im- 
partial history hath been lately written with great virulence 
by Dr. Belsham, a Presbyterian Parson ; and to be had at 
the Printer's hereof. — Ditto. 

Line 25. Erin was the old name of Ireland.-Dr. Ledwich 

To join, with frantic zeal, the mutual cause, 
And tear down William's church and "William's 
laws. 30 


But why thus speak in allegoric trope ? 
Mean you that France is bringing in the Pope ? 
If so, speak out ! but oh ! forbear to raise 
The false alarms of Titus Oates's days. 


No ! though my soul the bigot race abhor, 35 

" I only slay them in the trade of war ;" 

Nor like the Puritan's malignant race, 

Would I their lives with perjured blood hounds 

chase ; 
For Russel's memory rouses all my hate, 
While I deplore the gentle Stafford's fate ; 40 
And scorning Rome's infallible pretence, 
Can mourn with Pelham an afflicted Prince. 


Forbear, my friend, to tempt the dangerous theme; 
Seek not, with puny strength, to check the stream. 

Line 34. Titus Oates was a Jesuit, and turned Clergy- 
man for a reward, which he got by prosecuting Lord Staf- 
ford and other Popish Priests. — G. F.jun. 

Line 36. " Tho' in the trade of War I have slain men, 
" Yet do I hold it very stuff o* the conscience 
" To do no contrived murder." Shakespeare. 

Line 39. Lord Russel, an ancestor of the present Duke 
of Bedford, who was beheaded for high treason with several 
others of that loyal family. — G. F. jun> 

Line 40. For the persecution of this innocent nobleman, 
see Hume's England, vol. viii. p. 112. 

Line 42. See Sir Hercules Langrishe's exultation upon 
the downfall of the Pope, as a temporal Prince, and Mr. 
Pelham's spirited rebuke. — 5th May, 1795. 


Let not your venturous rashness idly dare 45 

The midnight vengeance of the Union Star. 
And tho' the raging Northern Star be set, 
Beware the fury of the Cork Gazette ! 
Malignant Gilbert on your life will scowl ; 
And vulgar Cooney raise the murderous howl. 50 
Think how unlucky Swift* had cause to rue, 
At least, as mad a Protestant as you ; 
Nor hope for help ; will cautious Faulkner dare, 
For one unknown to wage the wordy war ? 


Alone, unaided, let me brave the field, 55 

Nor meanly to superior numbers yield. 
Arm'd with an honest pride, and patriot soul, 
Who shall my heart's indignant rage controul ? 
Since no malicious spleen directs the dart, 
Nor aims, like Swift, to rend a female heart, 60 
Let the whole tribe their troop of scribblers rally, 
From plodding Hardy down to Mac Anally ; 

Line 46. Will posterity believe, can onr contemporaries 
believe, that a publication is on foot in the City of Dublin, 
periodically devoting to the knives of the assassins a certain 
number of our fellow subjects, obnoxious only for their 
loyalty ? — Vide Proclamation. 

Line 47. The Northern Star, during its existence, kept 
up in Ulster those commotions which ceased on its sup- 

Line 48. The Cork Gazette is also expired. 

Lines 49, 50. The Evening and Morning Post. The 
former is conducted by a madman, named Magee, contrary 
to law; whose father-in-law, Mr. Gilbert, hath the trouble 
of doing all the mischief, and yet getting none of the profit. 
The latter is very scurrilous, and hath been in the pillory — 
G. F., jun. 

Line 51. This is my journal, and, I hope, conducted 
with that due decorum for which myself, father, and uncle 
have been famous long before my birth, which took place 
on or about June, 1779. — Ditto. 

* Theophilus Swift, then convicted of a libel on Trinity 

Line 62. Messrs. Hardy and Mac Anally, two Counsel- 


Let coxcomb Burroughs wield his fribble pen, 
And sulky Fletcher issue from his den, 
Curran and Hoare their kindred souls combine, 65 
And doubtful Sheridan their party join ; 
Tho' their discordant clamour rend the skies, 
A Loyal Protestant their rage defies. 


Why, this is madness ! Protestant alone 
Would damn you quite; — but, to defend the throne, 
Tis mere insanity. — Farewell! I'm sure 71 

You're either past, or else not worth a cure. 


Farewell ! Good Heaven ! and do I see the time 

When Loyalty is only not a crime ! 

When the deep Orange, and the azure Blue, 75 

Conceal their blended dyes from public view ; 

When Nassau's memory, our great fathers boast, 

Lives only in an half forgotten toast ? — 

But tho' degenerate Irish, lost to shame, 

Should slight their great deliverer's sacred name, 80 

Shall they, whose fathers shed with him their blood, 

By Schomberg led, o'er Boyne's disputed flood — 

lors and writers of speeches. Those composed by the for- 
mer, are spoken by that celebrated orator, Mr. Grattan, 
who is an original genius. Those made by the latter, are 
spoken by himself and other defenders, on their trials for 
High Treason. — Ditto. 

Line 63, et seq. DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Bolingbroke Mr. Burroughs, 

Somers Fletcher, 

Themistocles Hoare, 

Sarsrield Curran, 

Kimbolton Ipse, 1 ~ _, 

Mute, &c Sec.}---' C.F.Sheridan. 
Mem. — None of these shall appear on my boards. — Fred. 

Lines 82 and 83. Schomberg and Callimote, the gene^ 
rals of the French Protestants on the 1st of July, 169o7 


Who followed Callimote at Glory's call — 
And saw their hated persecutors fall ; 
Saw coward James the raging contest leave, 85 
While doubtful conquest struggled with the wave — 
Shall men, whose fathers fiil'd that gallant band, 
And shared their proud reward — the conquered 

Shall they, without hot indignation, hear 
Their prince the butt of every coxcomb's sneer ?90 
Or, with a guilty indolence retire, 
And view Sedition fan the rising fire ? 
Shame on ye, Hugonots ! Your generous sires 
Resisted Popery even amidst her fires : 
Tho' madly loyal, yet renounc'd their king, 95 
And all the joys their native land could bring, 
Firm to the pure religion they professed — 
Retaining that, they freely gave the rest : 
And shall their sons be meanly now supine, 
When the two glorious principles combine ? 100 
When the same hearts that would their faith defend, 
Find in their sovereign its approved friend. 
All are not timid : see yon generous band, 
Whose manly spirit yet may save the land, 
True to the principles they dare pursue, 105 

Still twine the Orange with the Loyal Blue ; 
And blend together in one glorious cause, 
Their King, Religion, Liberty, and Laws. 
In vain shall Popery's malignant yell, 
In vain Democracy with voice of Hell, 110 

when they encouraged their troops to victory by such ex- 
pressions as these : 

"A la gloire, mes enfans — a la gloire ! 

" Voila vos persecuteurs !" Leland. 

Line 93. Hugonots, Trench Protestants so called, set- 
tled at Portarhngton and other places by the revocation of 
the edict of Nantz. — G. F.Jun. 

Line 103. The Orange Lodges, which bid fair to sup- 
port the glorious revolution principles of Religion and 
Go^rnment in spite of the united assaults of Messrs Grat- 
tan, Byrne, Keogh, and Co.— P. R, 


And venal orators — an hateful race — 
Arouse their currish scribblers to the chase. 
Aloof, the coward pack may howl and cry, 
This patriot band shall all their rage defy ; 
And onward urging, with unvarying toil, 115 

Shall save or perish on their native soil. 
Nor these alone the glorious cause support, 
Tho' now abandon' d by a cautious court ; 
That court whose timid policy descends 
To soothe its enemies, and slight its friends; 120 
And seeking in a prudent mean to steer, 
Makes dubious friends — but enemies sincere. 

Manly and firm, tho' Camden guide the state, 
"With honest pride and conscious worth elate, 
Still must each bold resolve delay to cool, 125 
In the chill prudence of the Portland school. 
Tho' Foster's sense combine with vigorous Clare, 
Treason to daunt, and fell Sedition scare : 
Yet Popish L (angrishe) or more Popish B (rowne) 
With insincerity their force shall drown, 130 

And, by divided councils weakly shew 
The State unable to contend with Keogh. 

But see unshaken Duigenan boldly stand, 
And face with proud contempt the rebel band, 
While his strong truth the prudent Senate awes, 
And forces even from Popery, applause ; 136 

Unawed by dread, by interest unrestrained, 
He only seeks for fame by honour gained ; 

Line 129. L e. This gentleman is an ingenious poet 

and Baronet, being the author of " Catholic Emancipation," 
and several copies of obscene verses, which he handeth 
about amongst the young ladies of his acquaintance. — G. F. 

B e. This gentleman is not a defender, neither does 

he live in the county of Kildare ; he is a Privy Counsellor; 
in Parliament for the county of Mayo. — Ditto. 

Line 132. Doctor Duigenan insisteth that this is not 
rhyme, in as much as shew and lough would not rhyme to- 
gether ; which, saith he, is the true and natural pronunci- 
ation of the word Keogh. — Ditto. 


And fixed in principle, in truth sincere, 

Stands unseduced by favour or by fear. 1 40 

Tired and disgusted with the venal crew, 
Too soon our Ogle from his post withdrew ; 
His glowing heart, with patriot ze^.l inspired, 
Too soon with honest indignation fired. 
He turned, contemptuous, from the paltry tribe, 
Whose soul is interest, and whose God a bribe ! 
And too unmindful of his country's call, 
Abandoned them and her to meet their fall. 

On no one man depends our country's fate, 
Tho' e'er so good, so noble and so great : 150 
Does not the chartered fortress of our laws, 
The proud Metropolis, sustain her cause ? 
Do not her loyal citizens oppose 
At once their King's, and their religion's foes ? 
Did not their justice spurn the base ingrate 155 
Who both insulted and betrayed their state ? 
Did they not drive the viper to his hole, 
With his own venom to corrode his soul ? 
Did they not drive him from the cheerful light, 
An hateful reptile, odious to the sight ? 1 60 

So did old Tredagh send her faithless swain 
To seek for seats beyond the western main. 

Line 142. The Right Honourable George Ogle, who has, 
to the unspeakable loss of the Protestant cause, retired from 
Parliament. The county which he represented has,, howe- 
ver, as an handsome tribute to his spirit, elected a Protes- 
tant gentleman to succeed him. — P. R. 

Line 152. The metropolis has from the beginning op- 
posed the late ill-advised innovations. Their representative 
took the first opportunity in his power to insult and betray 
them. He privately solicited a re-election, which not be- 
ing likely to befall him, he, like the fox in the fable, affect- 
ed to despise the object he could not hope to attain. — P.R. 

Line 161. Tredagh. The ancient name of Drogheda. 
" Oft on a car Buvindus saw me ride 
" From Tredagh's Towers along his verdant side." 
Preston's Poems, vol. I, p. 41. 

Faithless swain* The Jate J— — F s, Esq. 


So did his Hold ! the dead demand repose ; 

There let him rest, forgot by friends and foes. 

Tho' Charlemont, fast dropping from the stage, 
May trim or tremble, imbecile with age, 
His former steadiness our praise demands, 
When he restrained mad Ulster's furious bands. 

When the sly Presbyter his weakness found, 
And saw how vain his strength the church to 
wound, 170 

With native craft he sought a dear ally, 
Ev'n in the hated form of Popery ; 
Long have they laboured with increasing hate 
Each of the other, both against the state ; 
Ev'n yet they hope, from malice well combined, 175 
Their grand reward in anarchy to find. 

To check this league did Charlemont stand forth, 
Great in his character of Patriot worth, 
Treason appalled, shrunk from his awful eye, 
And Faction saw her dearest prospects die, 1 80 
Until, alas ! th' expiring spark was blown 
Into fresh fury by the breath of Tone.* 

Shade of Eliza, bending from the skies, 
Behold a Popish seminary rise ! 
Behold even those upon your bounty fed, 1 85 

By sordid fear or sordid interest led, 
Worship the golden Idol of the day, 
And at his shrine their adoration pay ; 
And heedless of your glory or their own, 
By Popish aliens represent the Gown* 1 90 

Line 177. The answer of this venerable and patriotic 
Nobleman to the Belfast address, in 1784, delayed for nearly 
eight years the combined assault of Papists and Presbyte- 
rians on the established church and constitution. — P.R. 

* Theo. Wolfe Tone, Secretary of the United Irishmen 
and Catholic Delegates, taken in the Hoche, in 1798. 

Line 190. The College of Dublin, founded by that Pro- 
testant Princess Elizabeth, returns two members to Parlia- 
ment ; one of their own body, who is a firm and loyal Pro- 
testant, was lately rejected, and a person not even educated 


But why on Alma waste an angry thought ? 
Have not our clergy the infection caught ? 
Have not the dirty tricks of party trade, 
Plac'd on the reverend bench a Renegade ? 
Does not the Cumbrian Priest in strains uncouth, 
Courting base Popery, slight the cause of Truth ? 
And do they hope their foes to reconcile, 
By abject baseness and submission vile ? 
LifFey as soon his refluent waves shall turn 200 
Back to the hills to seek their native urn ; 
Sooner Blaquiere shall scorn to seek a job, 
Or Duigenan court applauses from a mob — 
Loftus as soon, a sinking cause support — 
Or Tommy Burgh declaim against the court- — 
Carhampton sooner fear the assassin's knife, 205 
Or Curran vindicate his injured wife ; 
As soon shall Y(elverton) dispense the laws, 
And free from passion fairly hear a cause ; 
Forbear to whimper at a Rebel's fate, 
Or crush a soldier with the law's whole weight ; 
George become savage — Downs a bribe receive — 
Or Chamberiaine refuse a short reprieve — 
Sooner Latouche at misery shall rejoice, 
Or Toler hate the sound of his own voice ;— 
Than Popery shall a Protestant forgive, 215 

Or suffer subject heretics to live. — 

Oh ! souls of Butler, Knipe and Hamilton, 
Where is our pity for your sufferings gone ? 
Where that proud feeling of indignant rage 
Which endless war should on your murderers 
wage ? 220 

therein, but who had the merit of having always supported, 
and even outran, the wishes of Popery, was returned. Quod 
testor indignans ! — P. D. 

Line 213. That most excellent woman Mrs. Latouche, 
whose charities, extensive as they are, are too limited for 
her benevolent heart. 

Line 220. It hath of late been much the practice with 
Protestant Clergymen, to get themselves murdered in order 


It sinks and chills to cold and prudent fear, 
Politeness would not shock a murderers ear, 
And policy, so gentle, condescends 
To treat with murderers as our worthy friends. 

But tho' the many by Sedition led, 225 

May turn and tear the hand that gives them bread, 
Let not our indiscriminating hate, 
Class the whole sect as hostile to the state ; 
Where gentle blood or learning's gentler power, 
Have smiled auspicious on the natal hour, 230 
Kenmare or Bellew, bold in ancient pride, 
May stem Sedition in her wildest tide ; 
Moylan or Troy, with Christian eloquence, 
May soothe the madding multitude to sense : 
And tho' Back-lane should wield the threatening 
rod, 235 

Teach the wild herd to love their King and God. 

No ! 'tis the rancour of a bigot mind, 
With traitorous democracy combined, 
Such as in Hussey's Pastoral is seen, 
Offspring of malice, virulence, and spleen ; 240 
Such as the vulgar crew were glad to vent, 
In their disloyal Back-lane parliament ; 
Such as while treason last approached the throne, 
Dropped from the pen of Secretary Tone : 

to obtain a provision for their wives and families. This, a 
very sensible person, a Roman Catholic, hath assured me 
was the case with the above three gentlemen, the first of 
whom was a bachelor. — G. F. jun. 

Line 239. Dr. Hussey, titular Bishop of Waterford, who 
hath lately written a very pretty Pastoral, in prose, entitled 
an Address to his Clergy, in which, amongst other things, 
he clearly proveth, that the Roman Catholic religion is 
fitter for a republic than a monarchy. — G. F. jun. 

Line 244. Mr. Tone, Secretary to the Popish Commit- 
tee, and now supposed to be an exile in America. He was 
the original mover of sedition in Ireland, under the aus- 
pices of Napper Tandy. He was engaged in Jackson's trea- 
son and the Popish affairs, at the same time, and offered to 
carry information from this country to France, provided 


Such as in Francis Street was heard to flow 245 
From Byrne and Broughall, Lewines, Burke and 

'Tis this excites mine anger — this my soul 
Would lash from earth to hell — from pole to pole. 
Nor shall unmanly fear my soul dismay — 
No ! let me drag the monsters into day ; 250 

My much-loved brethren of their danger warn, 
And bigot treason hold to public scorn. 

Why fear ? in conscious rectitude secure, 
Unplaced, yet loyal — tho' not noble, pure ; 
Tho' far from rich, of independent mind, 255 

And tho' not shrewd, not obstinately blind ; 
Why should I fear ? their Union-star may rage, 
And with malignant guess ings nil the page ; 
Unknown to all my name obscure shall rest, 
Locked in the secrets of my single breast. 260 
But if my sacrifice could serve the cause, 
My king, religion, or my country's laws, 
The self- devoted Decii's frantic deed, 
The madman Curtius, or his madder steed, 
Behind me far in history's page should fall, 265 
And my prompt sacrifice out do them all : 
Popish sedition would I still defy, 
And as I live — a loyal Orange die. 

he were well paid for his trip to England with the Dele- 
gates.- An unexampled lenity suffered him to escape jus- 
tice ; a lenity which there is too much reason to fear may 
yet prove to have been very mischievous to this kingdom. 




TIME was — nor far removed that happy time* 
When Erin's muse could pour the sportive rhyme, 
When Twiss or Manly raised the frequent smile. 
Strutting in borrowed splendor round our isle ; 

Orange. I have been informed by the public, and my 
friends in general, that notwithstanding the precision, cir- 
cumspection, accuracy, and learning of my notes upon this 
poem, this being the second canto r which, according to the 
immortal Hudibras, is the second book — I have overlooked 
and forgotten to explain the signification of the title, which, 
as I am told, is the principal part of a work : My late uncle 
having been always remarkable as a writer of titles, which 
he did to Swift's "Works, Pope's Homer, Plutarch's Lives, 
and other Poets of the last age, in a style of superior learn- 
ing and elegance, of which the above is a specimen. Orange 
is the name of a pleasant fruit which groweth in Spain, and 
is therefore called a China Orange, which are sold on Essex- 
bridge and the Coal-quay, to the great annoyance of foot- 
passengers, and others who ride along those streets, by 
slipping of horses upon the skins or pee:s thereof — of which 
the Paving Board, Lord Mayor, Apple-women, Sheriffs and 
other Magistrates, ought to be particularly careful, as well 
as accidents which happen by the over driving- of bullocks 
and other enormities. Orange is also the name of a colour, 
a principality in France, and the Stadtholder of Holland, 
who was formerly King William the III. of glorious and 
immortal memory. — G. F.jun. 

Line 3. Richard Twiss, Esq. F. R. S. &c. &c. &c. a no- 
torious traveller into foreign parts, in particular Swadlin- 
bar, Waterford, Spain, and the Obelisk in Stillorgan-park ; 
He hath a very lively genius, having been several times 
kicked and tweaked by the nose, for his brilliant sallies in 
derogation of this country, while he was hospitably enter- 
tained therein. He declined travelling into Connaught and 


When at a coxcomb, proud in self-conceit, 5 

Satire could laugh, while wisdom did not hate : 
Then no dark politics our days disgrace, 
Mantled the brow or gloomed the surly face — 
Then social ease relaxed our cares to rest, 
Nor feared a dagger in each neighbour's breast : 1 
Thoughtless of harm the peaceful rustic slept, 
And women at old tales of murder wept. 
Oft as the Sabbath closed the weekly toil, 
The cheerful village brightened with a smile, 
The ruddy damsel met her sun-burnt swain, 15 
To lead the dancers on the neighbouring plain — 
The scenes of Auburn rose confess' d to view, 
And our sweet bard his glowing picture drew. 
How chang'd the scene !; — distrust and scowling 
Flag with murk influence through the social room ; 
The joke, the pun, the sprightly song, no more 
Set all the thoughtless table in a roar- 
Affrighted Comus flies the madding scene, 
And leaves mankind to politics and spleen. 
No more the sportive muse of Murcia's plains, 25 
Inspires her Preston's wit and attic strains — 

the barony of Forth, those provinces being remarkable for 
hospitality and other savage customs ; but was roughly 
handled, clawed, and bitten, by one of those barbarians in 
a coffee-house in London. Mr. Twiss hath, however, out- 
lived the ingratitude of his enemies, whom he had so grossly 
injured, and his resemblance placed in a certain utensil, for 
which he went in the most public spirited manner to Paris, 
to see the execution of the late King Louis XVI. with 
which, and a new species of thist'e, he returned safe to his 
native country, to the great embellishment of the arts and 

Manly. Vide Preston's epistle. 

Line 26. Preston. Thh gentleman hath written several 
works and poems, which he hath most patriotically printed 
by subscription, on the best Dutch paper and type, for the 
public benefit — the same being enriched with sundry en- 
gravings and other embellishments, which are of great ser- 
vice towards the understanding thereof. 


No more 3o Jephson's sneer, or Courtenay's jibe 

Relax the muscles of the festive tribe — 

No more Fitzgerald's academic muse, 

Unbends from toil to brush the mountain de^vs :30 

Even he, whose talents sway th' admiring bar, 

Or in the senate wield resistless war ; 

Whose daring muse to glory might aspire, 

Restrains her soaring flight and ardent fire — 

And anxious only gainful pleas to draw, 35 

Plods the dull round of politics and law, 

While classic Preston seeks a living tomb, 

Th' inglorious idol of a news-clubroom — 

Listless of fame, or quite content to gain, 

The vapid incense of Jos. Edkin's brain : 40 

Line 27. Mr. Jephson hath written many humorous 
pieces, particularly the Count of Narbonne, Braganza, and 
other tragedies : He hath of late turned Plutarch's lives 
into verse, from the Greek, which he calleth Roman por- 
traits, together with the history of Cleopatra — and is now 
engaged in writing a comedy upon the sad events which 
have happened in France — from which the Lord of his in- 
finite mercy, preserve us. 

Mr. Courtenay is also a descendant of the late Emperor 
of Constantinople, and author of many smart and biting 
sarcasms, parliamentary speeches and other poetic pieces. 

Line 29. Fitzgerald. The Rev. Gerald Fitzgerald, F.T. 
CD. and D.D. author of the Academic Sportsman, a pas- 
toral, in verse; in which there is a poetical description of 
the Black Mountain, the River Dodder, and other artificial 
curiosities near Dublin — and a treatise on the Hebrew lan- 
guage, in support of the Revelations. 

Line 31. This gentleman, as I am told, means Coun- 
sellor Charles Bushe, M. P. for the borough of Callan, and 
pupil of Mr. Samuel Whyte, at the English Grammar 
School, No. 75, Grafton Street. 

Line 40. Jos. Edkins. Keeper of the Dublin Library 
Society, Boydell's Shakespeare, Capt. Thomas Cunning- 
ham, and other curiosities. This gentleman is an author 
of good reputation, having with laudable industry and fla- 
grant zeal made a collection of poems, by Mr. Charles Fox, 
Mr. Sheridan, Dr. Gilbourne, Mr. Tickell, Mrs. Battiere 
and other celebrated geniuses. 


While Alma's muse, through learning's thorny 

Leads the meek champion of the Christian God. 
Even Courtenay prostitutes a noble name, 
In the rank stews of democratic shame ; 
And Jephson grown of sober dulness vain > 45 
Plods in the drowsy biographic train. 
No more are rural peace and comfort found, 
But ruin, rage, and riot stalk around i 
The wakeful village, scorning honest toil, 49 

Sends forth the murderous band to nightly spoil — 
With Drennan's lies and maudlin whiskey warm, 
To rob and slaughter, to procure reform. 
Alike green youth and unresisting age, 
Yield up their lives to their infuriate rage ; 
Not sacred robes their impious hands restrain, 55 
And shrieking beauty pleads for life in vain. 
With idiot apathy we hear their cries, 
Hear their deep groans in sad succession rise ; 
Like the blood-boltered Banquo's train they come, 
And stalk in grim procession to the tomb — 60 
With wonder crazed, with fear and doubt per- 
We hardly rouse to ask — " Who falls the next ?'* 
'Tis fell democracy* whose furious hand 

The Captain is an ornament to his Majesty's navy, hav- 
ing lost several of his Majesty's cruisers with great credit, 
against Jack the Batchelor, the town of Rush, the Black 
Joke, and other notorious pirates — from which he has now 
retired upon his pension, and enjoys his otium Cum digni- 
tate (as my Lord Cloncurry saith) in an arm chair in said 
room, which he useth for the purpose of censuring his Ma- 
jesty's person and government, with great spirit and loy- 
alty, as he is in duty bound, having all his support from 
the bounty thereof. 

Line 51. A very loyal Doctor of Physic, he having been 
acquitted and turned out of court, for publishing a treason- 
able libel; in which being a little man and of weak sta- 
ture, he calleth upon the volunteers to help him in over* 
turning his Majesty's person and government, 


Stabs at tli£ vital honour of our land, 
Tears every infant virtue from the soil, 65 

And fills our fields with turbulence and broil ; 
Bids man, unthinking of life's puny span, 
Raise his mad arm to murder fellow man. 

Alas ! how short our little lease at best, 
How soon the busiest sink to endless rest ; 70 

Even while we speak, w T hile Satire pours her strain, 
Who sees not life and life's enjoyments vain ?— 
Sees not young Beresford in fortune's bloom, 
Leave all his happiness to seek the tomb ? 
Prudent, yet bold, in all the fire of youth 75 

The soul of honour, loyalty, and truth. 
Dear to an honour' d father as his life, 
The doating husband of a lovely wife ; 
A beauteous offspring rising to his view, 
His worth to learn and his fair course pursue. 80 
Who does not grieve to see him rudely torn, 
From his young honours won, but scarcely w T orn ? 
One day to see him loyal, proud, and brave, 
The next the tenant of an early grave : 
Even democrats bestow the unwilling tear, 85 
And satire weeps o'er his untimely bier — 

But ill with Satire suits th' elegaic strain, 
And worth, like his, alas ! is mourn'd in vain. 
No ! let me cry against the coming storm, 
Rais'd by rebellion's talisman Reform — 90 

Line 69. The shortness of our lives hath employed the 
ablest divines, mathematicians, philosophers, and notaries 
public. My ever honoured uncle who lived to a good old 
age, used often to deplore that accident ; and it is accord- 
ingly engraved on his tomb-stone in the cabbage-garden. 
The French republic, considering this circumstance, very 
properly endeavoured to check the progress of this alarm- 
ing evil, by a decree, that death is eternal sleep, which giv- 
eth universal satisfaction to the late Crosbie Morgell, Lord 
Mountmorres, and others who expect to die a violent death. 

Line 90. Talisman. For the nature and use of this in- 
strument see the Arabian Nights Entertainment ; a book 
of much sound morality and magical knowledge — it is much 


With Satire's rod conduct the electric fire, 
And guide destruction to its native mire ; 
To seek out Treason in his dark retreat* 
While on the bolt detection rides with fate. 

Oh! blind to truth, by factious rage misled, 95 
Regardless of the dreadful path ye tread — 
Who fierce and turbulent are borne along, 
The loudest furies of the clamorous throng. 
Why join this drunken democratic rage ? 
Why on yourselves relentless warfare wage ? 100 
Why trample thus into the swinish mire, 
Ail that ambitious avarice can desire ? 
Birth, fortune, honour, influence to command, 
And talents to sustain your native land. 

There was a time when peevish spleen might 
dare lOi 

Tq spurn a Viceroy or resign a chair, 
Then, whether Pery ruled the wild debate, 
Or the proud Ponsonbies controuled the state* 

used in the Court of Exchequer, and other places, to sig- 
nify a necromancer's wand — a brass plate, with strangg- 
figures engraved thereon — together with a person who at- 
tends for the public good, to be sworn on juries, for .which 
he receiveth the sum of one shilling sterling. 

Line 99. Democracy signifieth the Liberty mob, an<f 
other rioters for the cause of patriotism, which is usually 
intoxicated with whiskey and other unwholesome bever- 
ages, to the great detriment of the revenue and the Post- 
office in College- green, where several nefarious drunkards 
daily are assembled, to the annoyance of the Lord Mayor, . 
the Parliament-house, King William on horseback, and 
other valuable members of society, in their perambulation* 
through this city. 

Line 101 . The state of filth and nastiness in which the 
streets of Dublin remain, in spite of the observations of my 
Journal upon the Lighting Commissioners, is a matter sf 
national reproach to all foreigners and other noblemen whor 
visit the same .: In. particular, Father G'Leary used to re. 
mark in his facetious manner, that the: Irish were like 
swine, who loved to roll themselves in the mire — with dw 
vers witty speeches thereof 


The nation smiled upon the paltry broil, 

And throve beneath their emulating toil. 1 1 

But now, when Treason lifts her form on high, 

Her feet in hell, her head amidst the sky — 

When the same fury which assails your king, 

Must on your heads the same destruction bring — 

When the same tide that sweeps o'er all the realm, 

The coronet of Bessborough must o'erwhelm, 

Why will you Ponsonbies, your name degrade, 

The mean retailers of a party trade ? 

Must you in mischief seek malignant joy, 

And, where you cannot rule, must you destroy ? 

Or do you hope to shun the evil hour, 

And be the last whom faction shall devour r 

Vain, empty hope ! — that Popery shall forget 

To pay her foes the long recorded debt. 

Caa she forget the wish which could debase 125 

To hopeless toil, her superstitious race ? 

Can she forget the sad oppressive hour, 

Line 108. The family of Ponsonby is very ancient, 
having been in good repute before the invention of ivory 
combs, as appeareth from their coat of arms, the same be- 
ing three rack combs. This invention having been of great 
service to the people of this unhappy country, they being 
obliged to wear shirts and mantles dyed in saffron, to des- 
troy said vermin — this family became of great rank and 
consequence accordingly, and did therefore strive to pre- 
vent his Excellency, Lord Viscount Townshend, to be Vice- 
roy thereof, who is now made a Marquis, by resigning the 
office Of Speaker of the House of Commons, in order to rex 
said nobleman ; and failing therein, and being desirous 1 to 
advance the public good did retire from the administration, 
and enter into opposition, from which they have made <8~ 
*ers ineffectual attempts to escape, proving that bad com- 
pany leadeth men into ill accidents and misadventures* — - 
The hopes of this family are the said Speaker, who is dead, 
— *fte Right Hon. W. P. — Denis Bowes' Daly and George 
Ponsonby, Esq. of which several facetious stories are toftf, 
ifi particular their wishing that they might leave this 
country as soon as it should be infested with their Roman 
Catholic brethren, and other o<Jd and laughable relations. 


Which saw ye rule with all but regal power ? 

Can she forget the pride which spurned the land, 

In which a Papist could obtain command ? 1 30 

Or is Democracy become so tame, 

To bend with reverence to an ancient name ? 

Will she forgive, in humble gratitude, 

The inborn guiltiness of noble blood ? 

(See wretched Orleans die unwept, unloved, 135 

The victim of the power himself had moved.) 

Think ye that hour their cherished hatred ends, 

In which your policy has made you friends ? 

If so, rush on, pursue your wild career, 

And never stop until ye must despair. 140 

While thus at random strays the adventurous 
And now a feather, now a shade pursues — 
High through the vast expanse of aether borne, 
A flaming brand from Discord's altar torn ; 
By the mad hand of Mendax hurled on high, 145 
Glares with terrific omen through the sky : — 
Avert, good heaven, the parricidal fire, 
And ere they reach us bid the flames expire. 

And is the sun of noble Hastings set, 
And fail the honours of Plantagenet, 150 

Line 145. This nobleman is one of the rich inhabitants 
of Ireland, who reside constantly abroad. My honoured 
uncle, George Faulkner, after whom I am baptized by the 
name of George, used to observe — "That between the ab- 
sentee landlords, and the resident nobility spending their 
estates before they came of age, in travels on the Continent, 
no manufacturer could get bread in this country, unless he 
were an attorney." 

Line 150. There were several gentlemen of this name 
Kings and Queens of England, from the time of King Henry 
II. to that of Queen Elizabeth and King James, when the 
Stuarts came in, from whom the late Earl of Moira was 
lineally descended, in as much as his wife was great, great, 
great, great grand-daughter of a natural son of the Duke of 
Clarence, who was drowned in a butt of Malmsey Madeira 
—being fond of that liquor, which, next after claret, is in 


That thus a mean adventurer's doubtful race, 
Their line ean sully and their fame deface ? — 
No ! their proud shades this mountebank disclaim, 
This poor pretender to their ancient name — 
This shrivelled, stalking, parchment pedigree, 155 
This barren, boastful genealogic tree — 
This learned professor of the puffing art, 
This very Packwood of his own desert — 
This talking General, this vaunting Peer, 
In words tremendous and in frown severe — 160 
This state quack Doctor, whose eternal theme, 
Like modest Brodum, is his own great name — 
Whose first attention for his country's health, 
Is to withdraw her too abundant wealth — 
And when the burning fever rages high, 1 65 

When most his skill is wanted — then to fly ; 
No ! these proud shades reject the dire disgrace, 
And spurn his banner from their gallant race — 
While on the fields of sad Columbia's shore, 
Still red with un discriminating gore, 1 70 

A thousand wailing ghosts his savage hand de- 
plore : 
All gracious heaven ! from this unhappy land, 
Avert the influence of that savage hand. 
If, than all others, any one be worse, 
Perverted talents are the greatest curse. 175 

See that pure wit, which virtue might adorn > 
By so depraved a wretch as Curran borne — 
See lettered Eunomus forsake the bar, 

great esteem, and therefore desirable to be drowned there- 
in, as a warning to all drunkards and other debauchees, who 
ruin themselves by drinking ale, whiskey and ardent spirits, 
distilled from the wholesome fruits of the earth, which be- 
ing ground, might be turned into barley bread, an excellent 
food for working people. This Duke of Clarence was bro- 
ther of Edward the IVth, King of Great Britain, France, 
and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, &c. God save the 
Line 178. This is ft Greek noun,- used to signify .a bar- 


To plot in dark debate, domestic war — 
See half mankind the bonds of reason break, 180 
They all are orators, they all must speak ; 
Learned and unlearned alike, the stammering fool, 
The grave Archbishop, and the child at school, 
All loud, all dull, all eloquent by rule. 

'Tis to this passion of our doating age 1 85 

We owe the sweets of democratic rage. 
The grocer's boy in rhetoric retail's, 
And trope and figure trim the butcher's scales ; 
While words oft heard, but never understood, 
Sail proudly down the oratorial flood. 190 

Emancipation — w T ord of magic sound, 
Swims with Reform, in mystery profound ; 
Th' astonished hearer, wrapt in wonder, stands, 
And most admires, when least he understands. 

When Parsons, of a little learning vain, 1 95 

rister in the Four Courts of Areopagus, a city of Attica ; 
and, according to this verse, quarrelleth with his servants, 
wife, &c. at home, to which he is much addicted — instead 
of minding his briefs in the King's Bench, Westminster 
Hall, the Tholsel Court, &c. &c. 

Line 191. Emancipation is a Latin word, used by the 
ancient Romans, to signify the giving a discharge to a foot- 
man, butler, maid of all work, groom, or other servant, 
which was done by a blow on the head ; for the false giv- 
ing whereof an act of parliament hath been lately made, it 
being a public grievance and great trouble, that persons 
who were drunken, idle and saucy, were discharged with 
good characters, of which the legislature hath taken notice. 

Line 192. Reform — a French word, signifying the re- 
storing of a thing to its true sense; and is therefore applied 
in all political debates, when it cannot be known what is 
the true sense thereof. 

Line 195. Sir Laurence Parsons, Bart, hath lately writ- 
ten a book, proving that the Argonauts and other circum- 
navigators, under the command of Jason, did navigate into 
Ireland, to obtain the golden fleece, the Giant's Causeway, 
St. Patrick's Purgatory, and other natural curiosities, 
wherewith said island abounds • and being fatigued rowing, 
did take the Ship Argo upon their shoulders, over the hills 
of Transilvania, to the port of Riga, from whence this country 


To Erin leads his Argonautic train, 

And many a page of learned nonsense fills, 

Their ship to drag o'er steep Sarmatian hills ; 

His harmless folly raises but a smile, 

And kind good nature might applaud his toil; 200 

But when he proses most profoundly deep, 

And o'er the senate waves the wand of sleep, 

Himself to perfect apathy refined, 

Freezing the ardour of each generous mind ; 

And while he drawls in one continuous hum, 205 

Who does not wish all Baronets were dumb ? 

In vain for food our orators would cry, 
Did not the Press a daily fund supply — 
Did not new grievances, and doubts and fears, 
With every post, assail their raptured ears— 210 
Did not incessant falsehood swell the page, 
With blood and slaughter, perfidy and rage ; 
An atheist lecture, or a simple plan, 
To rob and murder for the Rights of Man-— 
With many a barbed fang and venomed dart, 215 
To plunge and rankle in the guiltless heart. 

Could worth or fortitude protect Clonmell, 
When on his head the shafts of slander fell ? 
Though scattered by a madman's hand they came, 
Did they not settle with too certain aim, 220 

And to the centre shake his honest fame ? 

When Westmoreland, with too unthrifty hand, 
Diffused his Sovereign's favors through the land ; 
'Till his beneficence outran desire, 
And importunity began to tire — 225 

Did not fell Popery and her bigot brood, 
With slander pay the debt of gratitude ? 

Who can be safe, while Slander thus can roam, 

doth annually import large quantities of hemp, balk, deer's 
tongues, pitch, furs and other commodities, which would 
grow in this island under proper encouragement : He is 
also heir apparent to the barony of Oxmantown, near the 
Blue Coat Hospital. 


And stab her victim in his peaceful home ? 
And while he shuns the rankling wound in vain, 
Smiles with malignant pleasure on his pain. 231 
Is there one vice or weakness which your mind 
Abhors the most, to which 'tis least inclined ? — 
That vice or weakness on your name is hurled, 
And brands your honour to a slanderous world. 
Does spotless birth support your honest pride? 236 
Your mother in a brothel shall have died. 
Does conscious courage swell your ardent breast ? 
A thousand lies your cowardice attest. 
Have you drank deep of learning's sacred spring ? 
The name of dunce in every ear shall ring. 241 
Thus Cooke is ignorant and raw from school, 
And Cufie a generous unsuspecting fool — 
An horsewhipped coward, Barrington appears, 
And perjured Ogle loses both his ears — 545 

Dishonesty assails Latouche's fame, 
And insolence is joined with Enniskilleivs name. 

But at the shrine of Faction bend the knee, 
Adore the fiend of hell — Democracy : 
Obscene as Griffith, blasphemous as Dodd, 250 
Renounce your Saviour and abjure your God, 

Line 241. A dunce is a blockhead, of which there be 
several kinds, in particular the late Mr. Pope handleth them 
with great severity, in his excellent poem called after them 
The Dunciad — in which several of the greatest wits of his 
time are accordingly reviled, under the type of diving into 
Fleet ditch, and other scandalous libels. 

Line 250. Amy as Griffith, an author w T ell known for his 
patriotism and crooked legs — also of several tracts written 
upon himself, with great taste and modesty — also Inspector 
General of Ulster, which he lost by employing the influence 
of corruption, in the cause of independence, as appeareth 
upon the glass windows of all the inns in Ireland — also 
Mrs. Leeson's Memoirs, written by herself, alias Peg Plun- 
ket, after her death, in which are introduced many divert- 
ing jokes upon said Griffith's legs, the christian religion, 
the holy state of matrimony, and other curious subjects. 

Same line. Dr. James Solas Dodd, a person of great 


In guilt impartial, friends and foes betray, 

And let your vices blaze in open day ; 

Then every Journal with your praise shall ring, 

The Press your endless eulogies shall sing — 255 

Your glorious name in every page shall stand, 

The purest patriot of a suffering land — 

And should your crimes the sleeping laws provoke, 

You shall have speeches which you never spoke — 

Shall have this cordial comfort while you swing, 

That countless traitors from your blood shall spring 

Eternal elegies shall sing your name, 

Eternal affidavits shall enflame, 

Shall fix your sterling guilt and prove your well 

earned fame. 
Thus, to inglorious industry resigned, 265 

Too paltry for his high aspiring mind, 
Might farmer Orr have run his humble race, 
And never changed, or wished to change his place 

learning, he never having been hanged at Tyburn, but his 
name-sake, Dr. William Dodd, for forgery, in 1775 ; he 
not having left a portrait of himself, Dr. J. S. Dodd very 
obligingly sat for his picture, in order to gratify and im- 
prove the public, for which purpose he hath lately trans- 
lated the Pilgrim's Progress into blank verse, to the great 
advancement of religion and piety. 

Line 267. William Orr, of Farranshane, County of An- 
trim, farmer, who, to the great astonishment of himself 
and the public, was found guilty and hanged by a jury of 
said county, which was to be particularly lamented, in as 
much as heretofore an honest and independent humour had 
prevented them from convicting any person being a De- 
fender or concerned in high treason — well knowing that if 
they did so, their haggards would be consumed, their own 
throats cut, their houses set on fire, and their poultry put 
to an ignominious death — which said considerations should 
have justly prevented their finding Mr. Orr guilty of the 
crime he had committed, he being a man of comely stature, 
considerable influence in the country, and six feet high in 
his stockings—of which an extensive manufactory is car- 
ried on at Connemara, in the County of Clare, equally 
wholesome, soft and delightful as Spanish-wool, er any 
other skins, imported by the furriers. 


But strong persuasion flowed from Grattan's tongue 
And Orr believed — grew indiscreet — and hung : 
Had not fierce Calvin steeled his stubborn soul, 
Had he acknowledged holy Rome's controul, 
Rome might have canonized his sacred name, 
And given a rival to St. Sheehy 's fame. 274 

Nor is this all — but to your wondering eyes, 
Your coward vices into virtue rise. 
Has, like O' (Connor') s, your unshrinking back, 
With patience borne an horsewhip's fierce attack ? 

Line 274. Dr. Nicholas Sheehy, parish priesfcof Clog- 
heen, a reputable Village in the County of Tipperary, in 
the diocese of Dr. Hussey, titular Bishop of Waterford, 
who was hanged about the year of our Lord A. D. 1769, 
for obeying the first law of nature, self-defence, in the wil- 
ful murder of John Bridge, being suspected of intending to 
inform against the White-boys of said parish — for which 
said Sheehy was canonized by the Pope, and his bones are 
prayed unto accordingly, to the edification of devout per- 
sons, who are thereby excited unto a noble patriotism 
against informers, and a proper hatred of all governments. 
Line 277. An ingenius friend, also a General Officer, 
and a Member of the Royal Irish Academy, hath favoured 
me with the following observation hereon : 

"In my last work, which makes the four hundred and 
seventy-fifth volume of my writings upon Irish-Indico- 
Phoenician Antiquities, I have proved decisively, that the 
Latin and Hindoo names for Ireland are exactly the same : 
The words Suvarna dwip in the latter, requiring very little 
flection to render it into Hibernia insula, as is apparent 
by reflecting, that five letters in eleven syllables is no com- 
mon degree of coincidence. 

The word which is deficient in the verse above, is only to 
be discovered by the initial and final letters 0*****r. O is a 
very usual prefixture of Irish surnames; the name is, there- 
fore, necessarily Irish ; — but what name further remains to 
be discovered — Zoroaster, King of Bactria, was an Indian or 
Persian legislator of great renown (vide Orosium, Plinium, 
Justinum, Clementem in Itiner : & Antonin, torn 1, tit. 2, 
cap. 12,) : the letter Z is not to be found in the Irish al- 
phabet ; taking it away, we have the word Oroaster per- 
fectly suiting the initial and final letters in this instance ; 
but here another consideration arises, that of metrical ac* 


Have you, like him, obeyed your captive nose ? 
To manly fortitude your meanness grows — 280 
Have you renounced the robes you would disgrace 
And stripped the sordid ulcers of your race ? 
Unbounded praise shall fill your fated ear, 
And nature's nobles hail their brother peer — 
Even Democrats, thro' this distorted eye, 285 
Can wisdom in an idiot Duke descry — 
Or heedless of the book-learned critic's sneer, 
Can see a second Sappho in Battiere, 
Devoting to the sacred rights of men, 
A nauseous person and a ribald pen— 2SO 

While her pure sympathetic love adorns, 
With many a wreathe obscene, her Curran's horns. 
There was a time when Innocence could dare, 

curacy. To be candid, Oroaster cannot be read in the line 
as it stands, and though the proverbial mildness of the Hin- 
doos might well accord with the character here described, 
it would be difficult to reconcile this incongruity, had I not 
in my last journey to Kilmacumpshaugh discovered a most 
valuable and venerable tradition by which Roderic O'Con- 
nor, King of Connaught, is said, "to have come to Ireland 
from the rising sun;" obviously the East, Oriens: — now it is 
plain that the words Oroaster and Oconnor begin and ter- 
minate with the same letters, it is only requisite to turn 
Oro into Ocon and aster into nor and the names become 
exactly the same. Thus we see that Zoroaster, the Magi- 
cian, Wizard, Conjurer, Warlock, Sorcerer, and Sooth- 
sayer, was no other than Roderic O'Connor, King of Con- 
naught — It is remarkable too that the sect of Guebres or 
worshippers of fire, which he founded, is yet extant in the 
province of Connaught, insomuch that the inhabitants are 
called fire eaters, from an idle supposition of the unin- 
formed, that as they worship, so they must eat fire. 

Thus is my favorite doctrine of an ancient oriental con- 
nection finely supported, and an useful hint thrown out for 
future antiquarians. 

I cannot take leave of my reader without mentioning, 
that in my next work I hope to prove with equal clearness, 
that Porus, King of India, was a first cousin, if not half 
brother, to Eogain Ceansealach More, King of Leinster, and 
Prince of Breffany. E. V. 


The wildest ravings of the Press to bear ; 

Calm in a spotless heart, could chearly smile, 295 

And hear a madman or a fool revile : 

Sure, when revolving years had rolled away, 

To see the falsehood stand exposed to day — 

The lie refuted, cleared her injured fame, 

As precious metals purify by flame. SCO 

But in these times, when leagued with murder foul, 

Democracy and maniac slander prowl — 

When greedy for the hapless victim's life, 

Malignant falsehood whets th' assassin's knife — 

Enjoys the victim writhing in his smart, 305 

And tears, with bloody fangs his quivering heart- 

The wise may tremble, and the brave may fear, 

And even the honest dare not be sincere. 

True ! w e have laws, but in these wayward times 
To seek their shelter is the worst of crimes — 310 
Direct their thunder, lay one ruffian low, 
And at his heels a thousand ruffians grow ; 
Instructed mobs shall hoot and hiss by rote, 
And screaming slander strain a ten-fold throat — 
Then vulgar obloquy shall hunt you down, 315 
And chase your name through all the envious town. 
Your hollow friends support the general league, 
And lukewarm prudence dreads you as the plague- 
You walk in solitude the crowded street, 
And cautious w r ealth avoids you when you meet. 

But, bounteous heaven, to our enraptured eyes, 
Bids better hopes and brighter prospects rise—" 
The polar star in purest glory streams, 
The Blue and Orange blended in his beams — 
From Derry's sacred walls the ray divine, 325 
Directs our feet to Freedom's holy shrine — 
Shews us the blood be-spotted course to shun, 
Where Gallia's comet her mad race has run ; 

Line 325. Vide the Derry Address, December, 1797. 

P. R. 


And while we tread in pure religion's road, 

Our king to honour, and to fear our God. 330 

Yes ! the descendants of that gallant band, 

Who once did save — again shall save the land — 

In vain Sedition lifts the maniac cry, 

And recreant Whigs our liberties deny — 

C (urran) in vain, with patriot fur}' wild, 235 

May daunt a witness or confound a child — 

In vain Cethegus plot in dark debate, 

To screen a murder or destroy the state — 

In vain shall Gallia pour her desperate hordes, 

To rush infatuate on our Yeomen's swords. 340 

Since Loyalty from Derry's sacred walls, 

The patriot Protestants of Erin calls ; 

Bids us remember gallant Murray's name, 

And emulate intrepid Walker's fame — 

Bids us, like them, defend our faith and laws, 345 

Or fall the martyrs of the glorious cause. 

Line 334. All the arguments of the Whigs on the 5th 
of May, 1795, went to prove that the Bill of Rights is not, 
never was, and ought not to be the law of Ireland. 

" Heu quam mutati I " 
" How much unlike their patriot sires of old." 

P. R. 


IT is with much comfort and satisfaction that the writer 
of the notes upon this and the two former Cantos hereof, 
hath been relieved from the laborious duty of explaining 
the same, by the kindness of sundry eminent persons who 
have undertaken to observe thereon, by furnishing notes 
upon the difficult parts, together with dark passages, ob- 
scure hints, and unintelligible blunders, particularly my 
friend the Prime Serjeant, Dr. Kirwan, the Attorney Gene- 
ral, and other distinguished personages. — G.F. jun. 

Dublin, Feb. 14, 1798. 



OH ! for the verse that roused the Spartan fire, 

When old Tyrtseus swept the living lyre, 

That led, to glory led his gallant band, 

To fight and conquer on their native land : 

As did his strains their patriot souls inflame, 5 

When he adjured them by their father's fame ; 

Line 2. Tyrtaeus was a Grecian poet and general, re- 
markable for making heroic songs, and being lame of a leg, 
which he sung to his soldiers that they might despise 
wounds, death, bruises, enemies, and other accidents which 
they did accordingly in several battles therewith. — N. B. 
The ballads of Chevy Chace, Death and the Lady, and the 
Babes of the Wood, are of this kind, being apt to stir up 
anger and other noble passions, and therefore proper- to be 
sung by soldiers, 


By their affection to their cheerful homes, 
The piety that reared their sacred domes, 
And that spontaneous loyalty that clings 
Like filial duty, round paternal Kings. 10 

So should my verse, though humbler be its flight, 
Arouse the sons of Erin to the fight ; 
Should bid the Royal standard float unfurl'd, 
And scare sedition from the harrass'd world ; 
Should bid our gallant Protestants advance, 15 
To crush domestic Treason leagued with France : 
With dauntless minds to hear the frantic yell, 
By Daemons bellowed from their Gallic hell, 
And, heedless of the diabolic roar, 
Stand the firm champions of their native shore. 20 
Then should my muse record their father's fame, 
And dwell with rapture on each glorious name, 
Should turn their eyes to Enniskillen's walls, 
Or where the patriot voice of Deny calls. 
To proud Athlone, where Shannon's whelming 
wave, 25 

Has been before the French invader's grave, 
Should catch new spirit from old Aughrim's plain, 
And thus inspired, attempt the glorious strain : 
' ' Did not your valiant fathers save the land, 
" In spite of Popery's Gallic Irish band ? 30 

" Shall not their sons the meed of fflorv claim ? 
" Shall they not emulate their father's fame ? 

Line 8. Domes are at the tops of churches, and may be 
seen to the Royal Exchange, the Round Church, St. Peter's 
at Rome, the New Custom House, St. Paul's London, and 
the New Four Courts on the Inn's Quay, and are properly 
said to be erected by the piety of well disposed persons, in 
donations made after their decease, by will and otherwise. 

Line 18. Daemons are wicked, reprobate, and ill-dis- 
posed spirits and fallen angels, of the keeping whereof in 
bottles, a curious account is to be found in the Devil upon 
Two Sticks, together with sundry love adventures and ar- 
ticles of secret history, very delightful to be read by young 

Line 31. t( Oi ixsv yap irpoyovoi tovs fiapfiapovs v/inrjorav." 


<K Where mad St. Ruth bestrewed the bloody field, 
* ' May not a frantic Buonaparte yield ? 
" Where coward Rosen, foiled and baffled, fled, 35 
■ ' May not some other monster bow his head ? 
<( Where Sarsfield's gallant, but mistaken zeal, 
" Was taught Nassau's superior power to feel, 
(< May not your swords the traitor crew confound, 
" Who at their -country aim the mortal wound ?"40 
But not such call do Protestants require, 
Nor does their zeal demand the Spartan lyre, 
Uncalled — unbidden — see them stand arrayed, 
Where the proud Orange banner is displayed : 44 

Line 33. -St. Ruth, General Buonaparte, Rosen, and 
Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan, were French commanders, 
^-the first of whom was slain at Aughrim, 12th July, 1691. 
The General is a native of Corsica, but whether related to 
the fairy of that name, I cannot say, which was imported 
into Ireland about the year 1770, and shewn to the curious. 
— Field Marshal Rosen besieged Londonderry in 1689, for 
the French King, and James the II. by driving all the Pro- 
testants, men, women and children under the walls thereof, 
from the neighbouring counties, from which, by the noble 
obstinacy of the men of Derry, he was defeated with great 
disgrace — The present Earl of Lucan is descended from the 

Line 40. The learned Dr. Drennan hath favoured me 
herewith, which not understanding, I have added in this 

"I felicitate myself, I congratulate the country — it has 
elicited from my breast that virtue which contemptuous 
Administrations had overlooked. — Exalted above the mul- 
titude, I soar undisputed Evefiaycoyos of regenerating Ire- 
land. — Her enfeebled Constitution lies prosternated to my 
potentiality — the drastic ingredients ferment in the vesica- 
tory membrane of political correspondence — the fistulatory 
tube of Reform is subtended to the intestinal canal of cor- 
ruption — the elastic compression of the cork of secresy 
needs only the energy of my hand for its retraction — what 
a revulsion will be excited — what a torrent of foulness and 
putrefaction will burst forth and overwhelm our regenera- 
ted Country."— W. D. 


See tliem unasked — desire their Sovereign's leave, 
The throne, the country, and themselves to save. 
See them, in spite of his prudential court, 
Press boldly forward to their King's support ; 
Spite of the falsehoods, insolence and sneers, 
Of coward commoners and knavish peers ; 50 

"Who rather brave, (as less within its reach,) 
The wrath of Heaven, than Curran's ribald speech. 
Who crouch to wretches whom they most despise, 
And gaze on soaring virtue with surprize ; 
Or, feeling little interest in the soil, 55 

Look strangely cold upon our patriot toil ; 
Spite of the daily filth by Drennan spewed, • 
Or bold O'Connor in his bravest mood ; 
Spite of the lizard blooded craft, whose wiles, 
Are thinly mantled o'er by traitorous smiles ; 60 
Spite of the coward crew — who basely dare 
(Protected in the senate or the bar, 
Or in the hell-polluted Press concealed,) 
The poisonous shaft of calumny to wield, 

Line 58. I call upon ***, and ***, and * **, and ***, 
to witness that my dear friend Arthur is valiant — that his 
courage is equal, as his politics are congenial, to my own — 
Arthur will swear the same for me. — True, we have been 
both horse-whipped — Mais n'importe. — " A gentleman 
may be a gentleman though he be obligated to dance a 
bear." — A man of honour may bear a couple of horse- 
whippings, if it be only to obtain a proper abhorrence of 
so unmanly a practice. — J. P. C. 

Line 59. The kingdom of Ireland is remarkable of all 
other countries, wherein no venemous animals can be 
found, of which a large viper lately discovered in Dorset 
Street is a remarkable instance, proving the particular 
affection of Providence to Irishmen, by banishing them to- 
gether with toads, lizards, reptiles, &c. which, nevertheless, 
they are so insensible of, by committing rapes, murders, 
and shocking outrages, as to make it worse than the back 
settlements of America or Egypt. 

Line 63. The Press, a patriotic newspaper so called, 
printed in Church- lane, at the house of Mr. John Stock- 
dale, who liveth in Abbey- street, by Mr. Arthur O'Connor, 


And vainly strive on Loyalty to throw, 65 

That infamy which but themselves can know ; 
In spite of furious foes and timid friends, 
To no dismay the patriot Orange bends ; 
Forgiving slight, by insolence unawed, 
They love their King, and reverence their God. 70 
Proud of the glory by their fathers gained, 
They bum to leave it to their sons unstained ; 
And firm in loyalty and truth, to stand 
Like them, the saviours of their native land. 

Thrice happy Erin, did such spirit glow, 75 
In all thy sons against the frantic foe ; 
Did all stand forward in the common cause, 
To guard their king, their liberties and laws : 
Did they, who in mistaken loyalty, 
Fought with the prince who came to set them free, 
When loyalty and freedom now unite, 
Support a bounteous Sovereign in the fight ; 
Did they come forward for the general good, 
And loose dissention in their gratitude. 
Is it religion leagues them with a band 85 

Who drove religion from their hapless land ? 

who hath for some time past resided in the kingdom of 
Great Britain. 

This Newspaper was set up by sundry loyal and patriotic 
noblemen and gentlemen, for the laudable design of assist- 
ing the French in an invasion thereof ; which is performed 
by noble stories, seditious letters, witty paragraphs and 
doleful elegies, of which Mr. Peter Finerty now la-iguish- 
eth in Newgate, he having, for the public good, and the 
benefit of the owners, sworn himself the sole proprietor of 
said paper. 

Line 80. His late Majesty King William the Trird, of 
glorious and immortal memory, of which see my notes in 
the former part of this w r ork. 

Line 85. The Roman Catholic Clergy of Ireland and the 
rich merchants of the same persuasion, have of late shewn 
a meritorious contempt of wealth and superstition, of 
which their friends the French are remarkably fond, by 
joining with the same, in order to be relieved from such 
superfluities in a successful invasion, and establishing a 


Does restless opulence expect to rise, 
By those who deem his wealth their future prize ? 
Do they who serve religion's holy shrine, 
Against themselves with Atheists combine ? 90 
Must they their land with kindred slaughter fill, 
Because they are restrained from doing ill ? 
Or does blind loyalty to James's race, 
To blinder democratic rage give place ? 
Do they forget the blessings of a reign, 95 

That link by link has broke their every chain ? 
Have they forgot the call of gratitude, 
That should inspire their zeal for George the 
Good ? 
Oh, friend to Virtue and by Virtue loved ! 
Honoured by Truth, and by thy God approved; 1 00 
Though these mad times withold thy praises due, 
Yet future days shall own those praises true ; 
Proud of the homage of the good and just, 
Of that pure faith which you defend and trust ; 
In ail thy glorious life without a foe, 105 

Whom Virtue's self might be aggrieved to know ; 
Is there a wretch in morals and in fame, 
Lost to himself, to virtue, and to shame, 

Republic therein, under which this kingdom being depriv- 
ed of the means of hfkury, riches, and intemperance, will 
be restored to the true simplicity of former times. 

Line 87. Need we remind our opulent agitators of the 
fate of the Parisian bankers, or refer the infatuated priest- 
hood to the pages of Baruel, * and the massacres of Sep- 
tember. — P. R. 

Line 96. The Roman Catholics of Ireland, of whom 
several speeches have been made by Mr. Grattan and others, 
proving that all the benefits obtained by them w T ere useless, 
unless said Grattan was the giver thereof, he being remarks 
ably fond of giving away what is not his own, and there- 
fore fit for a Prime Minister, which is different in various 
countries, being in some called a Vizier, in others a Lord 
Chancellor, Black Eunuch, Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
and Reis Effendi, &c. for any of which this great patriot is 
equally qualified. 

* See his history of the French clergy. 


At thee his desperate rancour hurls the dart, 
Dipped in the poison of his putrid heart ; 110 

Still does the venomed shaft from thee recoil, 
Still baffled Vice renews her fruitless toil. 
Have not thy foes throughout a lengthened reign, 
Been only such as Walcot, Wilkes, and Paine ? 
Atheists who fear the faith thy laws defend, 115 
And only hating thee as Virtue's friend. 
Long may thy life remain to Britons dear, 
Long may domestic love thy labours cheer ; 
Long may thy gallant sons thy cause sustain, 
And long thy banners triumph o'er the main; 120 
Soon may thy conquered foes thine empire own, 
And crouch for peace to thine offended throne ; 
Long may thy virtues guard the British state, 
And George the Good be hailed — as George 
the Great. 
And will not Popery's stubborn sons obey, 125 
So good a Sovereign's mild paternal sway ? 
Is it abhorrence of the Brunswick line, 
That bids them with the Gallic fiend combine ? 
Does cherished hatred of the British name, 
The cause forgotten, still their souls inflame? 130 
Or does the restless spirit of the time, 
Urs;e their infatuate follv into crime ? 

Line 114. Dr. "Walcot, a poet, clergyman, and physician, 
surnamed Peter Pindar, whereby he exhibiteth his multi- 
farious talents to the public, having been degraded from 
his gown for indecency therein ; he therefore became justly 
enraged at the discreet conduct and temperance of his Ma- 
jesty, whom he accordingly revileth in sundry obscene, 
witty, and satirical verses, in which he hath ingeniously 
brought in the facetious histories of Tom a Lothian, Jack 
Hickathrift, the London jester, and other classical authors 
of good reputation. 

Ibid. The notorious Alderman Wilkes. 

Ibid. Thomas Paine, a staymaker, exciseman, and politi- 
cian, of Thetford, in the county of Norfolk, who hath writ- 
ten many public spirited works for the promotion of blas- 
phemy and murder. 


As when we seek an hateful vice to shun, 

Too often to the worst extreme we run ; 

So superstition in her last decay, 135 

To kindred infidelity gives way ; 

So does perverted sottish loyalty, 

Into the madness of rebellion fly. 

Else why this frenzy wild, absurd and strange, 

The good they have for certain ill to change? 140 

Who does not feel it nobler far to fall, 

His Sovereign' s friend — than live the slave of Gaul? 

For honour, truth, and loyalty to die, 

Than live the sport of vulgar tyranny ; 

To fall assertors of a lawful throne, 145 

Than live to crouch to Curran or Le Bon. 

Are ye become such mean, degraded things, 

That you must seek the scourge of felon kings ? 

Are you so tired of Carleton, Downes and Clare, 

To long for M' Anally or Barrere ? 150 

Line 142. Gaul is the ancient name of the kingdom of 
France, the chief city being called Paris. The natives of 
that country are remarkable for being uneasy and restless, 
for which reason they are in great demand as dancing mas- 
ters, linguists, and hair-dressers, and other professions re- 
quiring activity and bodily skill ; they are much given to 
cruelty, delighting in murder and other crimes, as appear - 
eth by the late Revolution, to the disgrace of those con- 
cerned. This people is also remarkable for making the wine 
called claret, also new systems of government, having tried 
seven thereof within the last nine years. 

Line 146. The atrocities committed by this monster are 
too horrible for detail ; his treatment of the brave O'Hara, 
whom the chance of war had thrown into the power of 
France, was the very weakness of clemency compared to his 
inhumanities at Arras. Born of the vilest parents (a 
gipsey and a thief) he preserved an accurate recollection, 
and paid a faithful retribution of every insult to which his 
youth had been exposed ; — age, beauty, or innocence, were 
no protection against the rancour of his revenge, the bru- 
tality of his appetite, or the wantonness of his power. — P. R. 

Line 150. L. M. Esq. a lame poet, comedian and coun- 
sellor ; he is reckoned a very able lawyer, and hath the pe- 
culiar good fortune of speedily concluding his causes \ it is 


Or do our laws, the boast of ancient years, 
Where wisdom in each varied form appears ; 
Whose eiTors always into mercy turn, 
Against these laws does such resentment burn ? 
That ye demand, to gratify your spleen, 155 

The rapid justice of the Guillotine. 
Awake — arise — renounce this idle hate, 
Assert your honour, and deserve the state ; 
Prove to the world, that differing in a creed, 
All Erin's sons are in her cause agreed : 160 

That bound in Loyalty's fraternal band, 
Papists and Protestant will save the land ; 
Then shall no ruffian democrat, defile 
With goary footsteps, our fair emerald isle. 
See Albion's sons in patriot union bold, 
A proud example to your eyes unfold ; 
Behold with honest zeal the Cambrian host, 
Rush from their hills to their insulted coast, 

computed that more of his clients are hanged annually than 
any other lawyer can boast of, which evinceth his great 
merit and the service he performeth to the state ; he also 
composeth most doleful comedies and heroic farces for the 
consolation of his deceased clients and their surviving rela- 
tions, which might induce them to laugh, were they per- 
mitted by decency so to do. 

Line 156. The guillotine is an instrument for cutting 
off the heads of men as a warning for the misconduct of 
others, and invented by Dr. Guillotine in France, and cal- 
led after him, by which his own head was cut off ; the same 
thing having happened in Scotland two hundred years ago 
by the Earl of Morton, whose head was cut off ; he having 
invented the same, for high treason ; also in Halifax, in 
Yorkshire, where the great woollen cloth manufactory is 
carried on similar to the linen trade in the county of Down, 
Hillsborough, and other places. 

Line 167. "I have a firm persuasion that the French 
will find themselves disappointed, if they expect to be sup- 
ported in their expedition by the discontented in this coun- 
try (England) . They have already made a trial ; the event 
should lower their confidence ; the Welch, of all denomina- 
tions, rushed upon their Gallic enemies, with the impet- 


Alike all ranks with native anger burn, 
And on the common foe their fury turn. 170 

Oh, did such mutual zeal our island grace, 
Though all the dogs of war in angry chace, 
Yelled round our coasts, in vain the fiends would 

'Gainst Albion's chalky cliffs and Erin's verdant 

Yes! they will rouse — the dark delusion past, 175 
The dawn of Union seems to break at last ; 
Persuaded or corrected, see them bring, 
Repentant vows to their offended king ; 
See them renounce, deceiving or sincere, 
The devious track of treason's mad career, 1 80 
And tired of turbulence and outrage, bend 
Before their king, their father, and their friend. 
How pleased, how happy, would the patriot muse, 
See this pure spirit through the land diffuse ; 
Alas, 'tis true, nor let us fondly dream, 185 

That Popery in all times is still the same, 
That flushed with health or sinking in the grave, 
She still must be a tyrant or a slave — 
The smarting culprit will deplore his fault, 
Not that he erred, but that he should be caught ; 

uosity of ancient Britons ; they discomfitted them in a mo- 
ment ; they covered them with shame, and led them into 
captivity. — Bishop of Llandaff's Address. 

Line 173. The Roman Catholic declarations of lovalty, 

Line 186. The Popish inhabitants of Ireland are only 
at present debarred of making laws to bind their Protestant 
fellow-subjects — their fellow Papists in England are under 
many more restraints, of which they do not complain — but 
the outcry here is founded on their numbers — we need not 
take the trouble of comparing their conduct to us when they 
had power, with the use we have made of power to relieve 
them out of every plausible grievance — it is only necessary 
to observe their progress, from supplication to request — 
from request to demand, from demand to menace — it is only 
necessary to observe, that their tone increased with con- 


And treason shrinking under chastisement 
Of her mischance sincerely will repent ; 
But whom can such repentant vows deceive, 
Treason again will plot and rogues again will thieve 
Even in the more than human mind of Burke, 
Did not the leaven of rank Popery lurk ? 
Did not the strength of his gigantic hand, 
Unsettle even* balance of the land ? 
Raised by his spell, did not a ruthless storm, 199 
The noon-tide of his Sovereign's reign deform ? 
Could all the splendour of his setting sun, 
Shew half the mischief his wild rage had done ? 
He did indeed repent, by grief inspired, 
Even in the ashes which himself had fired. 
But far from us be that ill-judging hate, 205 

AYhich in blind bigotry we reprobate : 
To every loyal Irishman in arms, 
My glowing heart with fond affection warms ; 
Nor that affection shall his creed remove, 
A brother soldier claims a brother's love : 210 
Nor should in any rivalship contend, 
Than who shall prove his Sovereign's firmest friend; 

cession, and that, in the same proportion as they have been 
gratified, they have clamoured. 

The following notice posted on the door of St. W r er- 
burgh's and other churches in Dublin, on the morning of 
Sunday Feb. 18, 1798, and read by thousands in this city, 
will explain much upon this interesting subject ; 


Erin go brah ! 

" You heretic Protestants, take notice, that Mass will 
commence in this Church by the 1st of May next. Your 
blood shall flow, aud your souls shall be sent to Hell, to 
the Devil your grand-father." 

Quid facient in sicco, si sic in viridi audeant ? 

Lord Moira however will call this a device of Government ; 
but let the reader compare it with the threats of the Press 
of the night before, and judge for himself. — P. R. 


Whose bosom shall with purest ardour glow, 

Who first shall rush upon tli* invading foe ; 

Who shall most proudly prove his loyalty, 215 

And who most happy for his King to die : 

Such be the contest, and may such alone, 

Engage the guardians of my Sovereign's throne. 

Yes, gallant friends, to your unshaken zeal, 

A loyal brother's kindred love I feel : 220 

In one fraternal principle agreed, 

In George's cause to conquer or to bleed ; 

To drive domestic treason from the land, 

To meet th' invading Gaul upon the strand, 

And hurl destruction on his ruffian band. 225 

Is there dull opulence whose sottish mind, 

Pants for respect which it can never find ; 

Or dark malignity, whose rancorous hate, 

Broods o'er the pangs of w T ounded self conceit ; 

Or hungry learning, "bony, gaunt and grim." 230 

Or mad ambition, or capricious w T him ; 

Or desperate bankruptcy, or moody rage, 

Or fell revenge, or crazed and peevish age. 

For treason fitted, the discordant crew 

To no one honest inclination true ; 235 

Combine the rancour of their poisonous hate, 

And urge their common rage against the state ; 

The black committee grows, the dark divan 

Full many a foul and midnight murder plan ; 

With hellish rapture hear the victim's cries, 240 

While earnest each his horrid labour plies ; 

And veiled by treason's diabolic gloom: 

In the black page assigns a brother's doom : 

Line 242. Perad venture I can let in a ray of light — a. 
scintilla of explanation — upon the obscurity of this passage, 
dashed, splashed, hashed, crashed, double dashed, and hab- 
erdashed, as it has been by the clumsy pen of a clumsy poe- 
taster. Let not the reader be deceived by the dark oblivion 
of a brow ; nothing could be farther from my mind than — 
M the Prince of Darkness is a gentleman." — Wm. Fletcher. 

I have ventured to omit the remainder of this note, which 


Raised by their spell appears the Union Star, 

And shoots his red portentous beams afar, 245 

Foreboding murder, misery and war. 

Such are the traitors, such the Popish crew, 

Whom mine indignant anger would pursue ; 

To these our country owes its honour lost, 

For these invasion hovers round our coast, 250 

Roused by these daemons into frantic rage, 

Do Erin's children mutual warfare wage : 

And urged by treason into fury, stain 

With kindred homicide their native plain ; 

Yet even to 'these will sordid interest bend, 255 
To treat with these will timid courts descend ; 
Does one more desperate ruffian than the rest, 
Make treason sport, and homicide a jest ? 
To him with suppliant voice and soothing strain, 
To treat with him will cautious statesmen deign. 
See them entreat for a precarious hour, 
To keep in quiet their unstable power ; 
See them in paltry policy bestow, 
Their dearest favours on their loudest foe. 
Does Egan bellow — does M'Kenna write, 265 

And teach the land to clamour or unite? 
The crouching minister to save his place, 
With chair or pension soothes him into peace ; 
While wrapt in stupid cunning, falsely wise, 
This obvious inference escapes his eyes, 270 

That every bribe which buys a dubious peace, 
Holds new temptation to the clamorous race, 
So on a time, ('tis /Esop tells the tale, 
And ^Esop's truths are seldom known to fail,) 
Torn by an angry cur, a rustic wight, 275 

With bleeding leg, in sad distressful plight, 
Sought for relief, where some old doating sage. 

would have more than filled the book ; but I rely for excuse 
upon the well known urbanity and gentleness of the learned 
counsellor. — P. R. 


To soothe the wounded member's acrid rage ; 
Bade him with bread absorb the streaming- blood, 
And give the cur the medicated food. 280 

The man believed him, till some wiser knave, 
This solid warning to the patient gave : 
"Reward offences thus unthinking clown, 
M And you'll be bit by all the curs in town." 
Nor can such paltry policy succeed, 285 

That gives to clamour the true patriot's meed. 
To mean submission ministers may bend, 
The rancorous foe can ne'er become a friend. 
Sooner shall Mendax to Munchausen yield, 
The brazen honours of the lying field : 290 

Line 289. The vigour and fertility of imagination mani- 
fested in the speech of Lord Moira in the British House of 
Peers, have I think, been over- rated. In my researches 
into the history of this noble family — I have found an indis- 
putable document of its hereditary veracity — it is an extract 
from a speech of the late Earl (who was invidiously stiled 
Baron Munchausen) in the House of Lords of Ireland, about 
the year 1769 — it is preserved in a collection of the papers 
of that day, the reference to which I have added : — 

" I can testify the truth of all he has asserted; at the time 
" of the insurrection in the North I had frequent and inti- 
" mate conversations with that celebrated enchanter Moll 
" Coggin: I have often seen her riding on a black ram with 
" a blue tail — once I endeavoured to fire at her but my 
" gun melted in my hand to a clear jelly — this jelly I tasted, 
•* and if it had been a little more acid, it would have been 
*' most excellent. Noble Lords may laugh, but I declare 
** the fact upon my veracity, which has never been doubted. 
" Once I pursued this fiend into my ale cellar — she rode 
" instantly out of my sight into the bung hole of a beer 
" barrel ; she was at that time mounted on her black rain 
" with a blue tail j some time after, my servants were 
' ' much surprised to find their ale full of blue hairs — I was 
" not surprised, as I knew the blue hairs were the hairs of 
M the ram's blue tail. — Noble Lords may stare, but the fact is 
" as I relate it."— V. Batchelor, V. I. p. 164— No. 24. 

Who after this will hesitate in pronouncing of the younger 
Earl with me almost the words of a sublime poet — 
" None but his sire can be his parallel.'' 

P. R. 


Sooner shall Smith give one implicit vote, 
Or Hector Graham buy himself a coat. 
Sooner The Press shall deviate into truth, 
Clanwilliam shall recall his wasted youth, 
Aldbro' write grammar, Pelham learn to lye, 295 
Or Kirwan preach without vulgarity ; 
Than shall each instance of extorted bribe, 
Allay the clamour of the brawling tribe. 
But does our cause such policy demand, 
Must we be brib'd to save our native land ? 300 
Is not the glorious wreath of patriot fame, 
Sufficient prize our ardour to enflame ? 
Must we be bribed to combat for our wives, 
Our children, parents, properties and lives ? 
No ! we anticipate the glorious call, 305 

We burn to rush upon th' invading Gaul. 
Foot to his foot, and face to face to stand, 
And hurl his bloody banner from the land. 
With his foul gore to stain the blushing wave, 
And give his thousands to their wat'ry grave. 310 
Hear it and tremble France, and friends to France, 
Twice sixty thousand Irish Protestants, 

Line 307. Kcu noda irdp 7rocu dels kcu eV di<nrldos acrirTB 


This whole elegy is so eminently beautiful, that the following 
attempt at a free translation may not be unacceptable. 
The third Elegy of Tyrt-eus, 
addressed to the loyal 



Yes ! from the heroes of the Boyne ye spring, 

Be firm ! for Heaven still smiles upon your cause j 

Fear not the rabble crew — defend your King, 
Stand boldly forward for your faith and laws, 


For pure religion and proud loyalty, 
Boldly resolve to conquer or to die ; 
Hear it, ye regicides, and feel dismay, 315 

O'er all the land extends the firm array, 
The land exulting smiles and owns their patriot 


Well did your sires sustain the sanguined field, 
Well did their virtue stem the battle's rage, 

Shall not their sons to make rebellion yield, 
Advance with courage and with skill engage ? 


Few, very few, who foremost in the throng, 
Mix hand to hand, and seek the furious foe, 

Whom the full tide of honour bears along, 
Whose ardent minds with patriot valour glow. 


Few of those gallant souls in battle fall, 

Whose deeds intrepid oft a nation save ; 
While dastard minds who heed not honour's call, 

In coward flight run headlong to the grave. 


But oh i what words can tell the dire disgrace, 
The foul opprobrium, of a Craven's name, 

Whose servile back inglorious wounds debase, 
Whom fear erases from the roll of fame. 


Yes ! gallant Protestants, unshaken stand ! 

Strain every muscle, brace your every nerve, 
Root your firm footing in your native land, 

And never — never — from your duty swerve. 


Each in his hand his tempered blade sustain, 
Each on the helm exalt the nodding plume, 

Each seek for honour in the paths of pain, 
Nor shun the glories of a soldier's tomb. 


Shall not the muse record his honoured name p 
Whose spirit first aroused this glorious flame ? 
Can she forget that 'midst an host of foes, 320 
From Verner's care this patriot band arose ? 
Can she forget the man whose honest toil, 
Called forth the champions of her native soil, 
That when the Puritan and Popish band, 
With kindred malice tore the bleeding land ; 325 
When treason roamed around the northern plain, 
And desolation marked her dreary reign ; 
When urged to follow Popery's fell career, 
O'er-laboured murder panted in the rear ; 
From Verner's spirit and example rose, 330 

This patriot band to crush their frantic foes, 
That as they rose did raging discord cease, 
And Ulster smile again in harmony and peace. 

Yes fleeting ministers may pass away, 
And leave no trace — the meteors of a day, 335 
Even Camden may be known beyond his hour, 
Only for thwarted zeal and trammelled power, 
Wolfe's gloomy wisdom, ParnelTs lumbering sense, 
And Ponsonby's malignant eloquence ; 
Inveterate Knox, and his emetic face, 340 

And mewling Tiglie, and Grattan's manly grace ; 
Fitzgerald's chattering, and O'Donnell's din, 
And crabbed Crookshank's everlasting grin ; 


But boldly brandishing the fatal steel, 

Set foot to foot, and face to face engage, 
Let the fierce Gaul your power superior feel, 

And bow his banner to your loyal rage. — P. R. 

Line 338. If any man shall presume to imagine that it is 
the littleness of my own vanity, the petty ambition of a 
paltry fame, or a weak imagination of my own consequence, 
which actuates the feeling of my mind, when in the discharge 
of an high official duty, I here lay my finger on this name ; 
either I am unfit to perform that duty, or he does most gross- 
ly mistake the purity of my conscience. — Arthur Wolfe. 

Line 342. I protest and vow — I protest and vow — I pro- 



xxjj into dark forgetfulness may fade, 
Nor leave behind the shadow of a shade, 
While Verner's honest name remains engraved, 
In the proud record of a nation saved. 

It will be saved ! in patriot virtue bold, 
Her sons will emulate their sires of old ; 
Shall not new heroes start in every name, 350 

That guards with reverence its paternal fame ; 
Shall not an Osbory in Ormond rise, 
His King to serve and danger to despise ; 
Does not the zeal that fired the breast of Cole, 
As purely glow in Enniskillen's soul ; 
Fearless of difficulty, proud of toil, 
May not another Broghill rise in Boyle ; 
Can wayward Bellamont forget the field, 
Where gallant Coote beheld O'Connor yield ; 
May not a Falkland rise in Castlereagh, 360 

As wise, as loyal, and as brave as he, 
Shall not new Bakers rise, as yet unknown, 
And other Ginkles conquer in Athlone ; 
Shall not new Murrays, Walkers, Moores be found, 
The force of France and Popery to confound ? 365 

Yes, they will rise, unconquerably brave, 
The fields their fathers won, again to save, 
The frantic Gaul, and treason's desperate band, 
To hurl indignant from their native land ; 
Sedition shall no more our plains defile, 370 

Plenty once more throughout the land shall smile, 
And Peace again rejoice our emerald isle. 

test and vow, I don't know — I don't know, who this can 
mean— who this can mean — who this can mean, &c. &c. — 
Da capo. James Fitzgerald. 

Line 352. This gallant young nobleman, the glory of the 
house of Butler, the pride of Kilkenny, is one of my dear 
and particular friends ; I honour his spirit, I adore his rank, 
I revere his castle of Kilkenny ; I have a cottage myself at 
Cabxagh, and, as the reader is probably one of my two hun- 
dred and thirty- three thousand dear, intimate, and parti- 
cular friends, I beg, indeed whether he is or not I beg, he 
will give me a day at Cabragh — any time between this and 
the Greek calends ; I beg you will not forget, my dear good 
fellow — do not forget — J ■ n T r. 




P. R. I have made many inquiries in order to 
ascertain the meaning of these initial letters, and 
also that of the letters P. and F. and the only an- 
swer that I have been able to obtain is the follow- 
ing-, contained in a letter from my nncle, Dr. 

" Your letter wants no apology; nothing can 
gratify me more than to bring back to my memory 
one whom I loved so dearly as I loved your father, 
and your purpose of reprinting his verses delights 
me; I must rejoice in whatever does honor to his 
name, and he left no trace of himself that is not 
honorable. I am afraid, however, that I cannot 
give you any satisfactory answer about P. R. and 
the P. andi 7 '. I once asked who P.R. was, when 
I was a little boy, and was answered by a request 
to give a Greek translation of tol-de-rol-lol, or 
ccwn-derry-down, or some such thing, from which 
I inferred, I believe justly, that the letters w T ere 
capriciously used for the purpose of mystification 
(to employ a new word for a thing as old as the 
fame of Eleusis.) 

" The P. and F. I understood to represent Pro- 
testant and Friend, but this I believe was merely a 
conjecture of my own, I cannot recollect any ex- 
planation on the point, and I must not threaten to 
encumber you with my help, . but I may take the 
opportunity to say, that any aid I can give, by in- 
formation or otherwise, is most heartilv at vour 


service. My judgment is little worth, but I think 
your father's political verses and songs were his 
best, and Irish History gives them an interest 
beyond the merit of the versification/ ' 

Line 7. 
Curran — in his personal appearance was dark, 
swarthy, and very ill-looking ; he brought an ac- 
tion against the seducer of his wife, and called 
their son as a witness against his mother ; the 
whole affair was discreditable to Curran, and jus- 
tified the strong language of the 8th line. 


Three Members of the Irish Parliament. 

Hardy — the writer of the life of Lord Charle- 
mont, does not deserve to be thus classed with 
M' Anally, who is believed to have enjoyed a pen- 
sion of £ 300. per annum from Government up to 
the time of his death, including the period he was 
employed in defending the defenders and other 
traitors, and in all their secrets. 

CaJIimote — was an Hugonot General in Willi- 
am's army. 

123. and 126. 
Viceroys of Ireland. 

Fostei* and Clare. — The former, Chancellor of 
the Irish Exchequer ; the latter, Speaker of the 
House of Commons. 

Keogh — of Mount Jerome, near Harold's Cross, 


Dublin, a very clever and rich silk manufacturer, 
and the brains-carrier of his party. 

Dr. Patrick Duigenan — Member of the Irish, 
and, afterwards, the United Parliament : always 
an uncompromising, and unflinching opponent of 
the Papist party. 


This alludes to the defeat of Grattan when Can- 
didate for Dublin. 


John Forbes — Member for Drogheda, who af- 
terwards emigrated to America. 

Three murdered Clergymen. 

Dr. Moylan — R. C. Bishop of Cork, and — 
Dr. Troy — R. C. Archbishop of Dublin, sup- 
ported the Union. 


Byrne — a very rich merchant. Often chairman 
of Roman Catholic meetings. 

Broughdll — ditto — less cautious, and more ho- 

Lewines — a bold and clever attorney. He es- 
caped, lived long, and died in Paris. 

Keogh — see note on line 132. 

Burke, John Ignatius — an influential Roman Ca- 
tholic, and often Chairman at their meetings 




Charles Buslie — Afterwards Solicitor General, 
and now (1841.) Chief Justice. 


Edmund Pery — Uncle of the Earl of Limerick, 
Speaker of the House of Commons, in which office 
he succeeded Mr. Ponsonby. 

Lord Moira. — These lines allude to his visit to 
Ireland. This Peer descended from an Irish fa- 
mily of the name of Rawdon, married the heiress 
of Hastings, that family being now represented in 
the male line by the Earls of Huntingdon. The 
epithet "mendax" is more fully explained in the 
original note on line 289, Canto III. 


Lord Moira was a Lieutenant Colonel during 
the American war, in the course of which a party 
under his immediate command, (led by a treacher- 
ous American over the ice) surprised and cut to 
pieces in their beds a regiment of Light Horse, 
called, oddly enough, Lady Washington's Dra- 

217. and 219. 
The madman was Magee, publisher of the Even- 
ing Post, tried and convicted for political libels 
before Lord Clonmel, more than once, who wa? 
therefore abused by him for his fiat. This Magee 
purchased a piece of ground immediately in front of 
Lord Clonmel's mansion, near Dublin, and named 
it Fiat Hill. Here he weekly entertained the 


Dublin populace with ludicrous exhibitions — prizes 
of pigs with soaped tails — dancing dogs in barris- 
ters uniforms — donkey races with the jockeys in 
wigs and gowns, &c. He all the time, however, 
studiously kept without the grasp of the law, and 
so annoyed Lord Clonmel, that the chagrin occa- 
sioned by these and other sources of annoyance 
eventually broke down his spirits and constitution. 

Roman Catholic Relief Bill of 1793. 

Edward Cooke — Under Secretary for Ireland. 

Lord Tyrawley. 

Sir Jonah Barrington — author of several works 
on the Irish History of this period, amusing, but 
not strictly correct. 

Right Hon. George Ogle—M. P. for Dublin. 

Griffith — author of the " Triumvirate, " a novel 
to which the epithet justly applies. 

Arthur O'Connor — afterwards tried for High 
Treason. He now lives in Paris, General O'Con- 
nor in the French Army. 



"What a country this for regenerate man*** 
were the satanic Saxon banished from it. — Vide 
O'ConnelTs speech at Cork, January, 1841. 

John Eg an. — Chairman of Dublin County, a 
coarse, bluff, red-faced man. He voted last against 
Lord Tyrone's address in favor of the Union, and 
the number 110 being announced, flourished a 
great stick over his head and with the voice of a 
Stentor cried out — " and I am one hundred and 

Afterwards Baron Smith. This should rather 
be explicit, for he never gave his vote in favour of 
a measure without stating some objection to it. 

Father in law of Lord Norbury, and so miser- 
able in his dress, that a lady, a near relative of the 
narrator of this anecdote, was once on the point of 
giving him sixpence, which he would have ac- 

— ♦♦♦< 


Ballad, to the tune of" Chevy Chase J* 

■ The Rats " was written in 1788, upon occasion of the debates in the 
Irish House of Commons, upon the Regency Question. "The Rats" are 
the Placemen and other Pittites, who supposing the King incurably mad, 
joined Mr. Grattan and the opposition against the Marquis of Buckingham, 
Mr. Pitt's Lord Lieutenant. 


God succour soon our noble king 

And keep us faithful all ; 
A base desertion did of late 

In College- Green befall. 


Fierce Grattan made a dreadful vow, 
Proud Buckingham to fight;* 

Whose matchless power had oft before, 
Distress' d this little wight. 


And thrice he wound his bugle horn, 
His horn both loud and shrill ; 

The Rats came trooping to his pipe, 
Obedient to his will. 

From Tipperary's fertile fields, 

Came Curran brisk and keen ;f 
Well skilled to aim the shaft concealed, 

But bad in fight I ween. 

* The Lord Lieutenant. 

t See Note on line 7 of Orange. 


Next floating in a dung-boat came, 

Along the grand canal ;* 
With Wolfe and Burgh and Conolly,t 

The Lord High Admiral. { 

In all the pomp of Eastern pride, 

He grimly ey'd the flood ; 
And ruled with arbitrary sway, 

The boatmen as he stood. 


Then from his dark monastic cell, 

With harmless canons graced ; 
Crept forth ecclesiastic Browne,§ 

In legal armour cased. 

His spear was of that gander's quill, 

That saved the Capitol ; 
A Parchment helmet too he wore, 

To save his paper skull. 

His shield was formed of many a sheet, 

Of Puflendorf de Jure; 
His gorget was of Grotius too, 

To guard the little Fury. 

* The seats of A. Wolfe, I. Burgh, and T. Conolly, 
were near the canal. 

f Members of the Irish House of Commons. 

X Richard Griffith, Chairman of the Canal Board, and 
thence called High Admiral. 

§ Arthur Browne, Fellow, and for many years M. P. of 
Dublin College, Doctor of Laws, and practitioner in the 
Ecclesiastical Court, he was of small stature. 


When sneaking came great Godfrey Greene,* 

And some of small renown ; 
Bold Grattan saw, and sadly soon, 

He cast his eyes adown. 

But quick with happy thoughts inspired, 

He starts and cries aloud ; 
Let those who now for pensions sigh, 

With haste come join the crowd. 

Leave foolish Buckingham for me, 

And to my standard run ; 
Haste to salute the rising day, 

Forsake the setting sun. 

Those that have places shall have more, 

And those that have not, shall ; 
And those who like it have their fill, 

Of jobbing and cabal. 

These words with mighty influence wrought, 

On bald Sir John the Paviour,f 
Who would for thirty pence again, 

Betray his Lord and Saviour. 

* An Irish Barrister, M. P. for, I think, Dungarvon, but 
he was not a practising Barrister. 

f Sir John Blaquiere, afterwards Lord De Blaquiere, 
very bald, at this time Chief Commissioner of the Paving 
Board, he had been Secretary under Lord Harcourt. 



He soon, for moderation sure, 

Is not in him inherent ; 
Hurled paving-stones and channel- dirt, 

Upon the king's Vicegerent. 


He talked of jobbing, and what not, 
Till Harcourt's ghost appear'd ;* 

His shroud with icicles was hung, 
And eke his silver beard. 

The Paviour shrunk, his blood was chill'd, 

But Harcourt still came nigher ; 
Till to remove the deadly cold, 

He raked the soldier's fire. 

False Loftusf came and Ponsonby, 

But who'd expect to find, 
A steadiness in men who live 

By watching of the wind .J 

Then Gervais§ turn'd tho' at the act, 

Nunc meminisse horret ; 
Yet long he beat the bush about, 

To find a reason for it. 

* A Former Lord Lieutenant, 
f Afterward Marquis of Ely. 
J Postmasters General. 
§ Gervais Parker Bushe. 


Then shifted Jack,* for learning fam'd, 

I mean old Jack the Prancer ; 
Who though the gout has cramp' d his toes, 

Is still a noble dancer. 


George Oglef too, who ne'er before, 

A thought of baseness harbour'd ; 
Now hid his face, then veer'd about, 

And stationed on the larboard. 


Then lofty buskin'd LangrisheJ too, 

Rein'd Pegasus about ; 
Tho' gorg'd with favours late received, 

Yet join'd in Grattan's rout. 


But why should T, of private men, 

Take this superfluous notice ; 
When those in trust and confidence, 

Thought fit to act the Proteus ? 

When Shannon^ and his light dragoons, 

And Leinster|| and his brothers; 
Left Buckingham to save himself, 

And went to join the others. 

* John Hely Hutchinson, Provost of Trinity College, 
Dublin, called Jack Prancer, father of the first Lord 

f Member for Dublin. 

X Sir Hercules was a kind of literary man. 

§ The present Lord's father. 

|| The Duke, and I think three brothers, amongst thera 
Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 


But faithful John Fitzgibbon stay'd 

To help his Royal Master ;* 
Kilwarlin,t Mason,} Beresford,§ 

Disdain'd to act the dastard. 

And thus I pray that our good King 

May be in health e'er long ; 
To starve those Rats that fled the ship, 

And so I end my song. 


"Macdermot's Ghost," a sketch of the original Society of United Irish- 
men, (the fathers of the Rebellion of 1798) at their meeting at the Taylors 
Hall, Back Lane, Dublin. It has particular reference to the dispersion of 
the conspirators by my grandfather as High Sheriff, on the night May 22, 
1794; the poem was written a few days after that affair. Macdermot had been 
hanged, for high treason five weeks before : he was a common fellow of the 
lowest class of farmers, but the United Irishmen named in the poem were all, 
or all pretended to be, Gentlemen. I ought to except Bacon, who was a tai- 
lor,but rich, he was taken in the rebellion, dressed as a woman, and hanged 
in that disguise. 


Glimmering thro' the distant alley, 
While a dim lamp hardly shone ; 
Limp'd the mighty Macanally, || 
Meditating and alone. 

* Earl of Clare. 

f Afterwards first Marquis of Downshire. 

J I. Monk Mason. 

§ John Beresford. 

|| An Irish Barrister, Member of the Society of United 
Irishmen, and, as their champion, fought a duel with Sir 
Jonah Barrington for speaking in opprobrious terms of 
that Society. 



Often did his footsteps falter, 
Often did his ardour check ; 
While around a shadowy halter, 
Play'd on his devoted neck. 


Soon the black Association, 
Of sedition's sons he found ; 
Leagued to give this wretched nation. 
Many a deep and mortal wound. 

Scowling in each gloomy feature, 
Blasphemy and murder lay ; 
Frowns that chill the soul of nature, 
O'er each face alternate play. 


But their horror shall I term it, 
Panic, fright, -or abject fear ; 
When the form of pale Macdermot, 
Seemed to fill the vacant chair. 


With wan cheeks and hair defiled, 
While his neck a halter tied ; 
O'er the frighted gang he smiled, 
As from his dread form they hied. 

Panting every hair erected. 
First the idiot spokesman fled : 
Trembling like a thief detected, 
Ran the son of -smuggling Ned. 


There, who once for fees could strain hard, 
Who so many friends has hung ; 
Sinks the flesh of limping Leonard, 
Melted to a heap of dung. 

But the hold dare-devil swaggers, 
And his brother, desperate pair ; 
Now they aim their Gallic daggers, 
But they pierce a form of air. 

As for thee unhappy scion* 
Of an old and noble stock ; 
Thee shall Pity cast her eye on, 
Thee no taunting scorn shall mock. 

Starving quacks and briefless lawyers, 
Foolish gulls and crafty cheats ; 
Tradesmen who know no employers, 
Gentlemen without estates. 

Some in dire confusion running, 
Heap'd upon each other fall ; 
Some the dreadful spectre shunning, 
Curse the uncomplying wall. 

Not six months were half so tedious, 
To the soul of mighty Bond ;f 
Nor to be confined an age, as 
Those few minutes in such pound. 

* 1 suppose the Hon. Simon Butler, son of Lord Mount- 
garret, Chairman of the Society. 

f A woollen draper and tailor, Secretary of the Society, 
— he was sentenced to be hanged, but died in prison. 


Now the prince of petty follies, 
Sends an odour through the room : 
Who mistakes the scent of Collis, 
Overcoming all perfume? 

But, alas ! escape is hopeless, 
Death invoked rejects their call ; 
Nor will Ewing* spin a rope less, 
For the law will have them all. 


And behold a new disaster, 
See of ghosts a horrid band ; 
Rise around their strangled master, 
And at every elbow stand. 


See, he cries, this dismal presence, 
Quickened once with honest hearts ; 
These were all brave Irish peasants, 
Victims of your baleful arts. 

Many a curse their weeping widows, 
Pour upon your hateful gang ; 
Will they (cry their orphans) feed us, 
By whose arts our fathers hang. 

Can we from the wealth of Hervey,f 
Hope to pick one scanty meal ; 
No, alas! tho' hundreds starve, he 
Of his pleasures will not fail. 

* The hangman. 

t Bagenel Hervey, one of the Chiefs of the Welford 
jfebels, and afterwards hanged. 



Will the skill of quacking Drennan* 
Heal the wounds his pen has made ; 
Oh that cursed itch of penning, 
Many a brave heart low has laid. 


Could the skill of learned Emmet, 
Save us from th' offended law ; 
When the tide came could he stem it 
Could he save us from its claw. 


What avails the land that Tone,f 
Basely like a traitor fled ; 
If his foul companions go on, 
His sedition still to spread. 


I alas but for your poison, 
Still might live content with ease ; 
Had I ne'er your works set eyes on, 
Base destroyer of my peace. 


Roused by libels into riot, 
I dared wrestle with the law ; 
And destroy'd my country's quieft, 
Hoping still the state to awe. 

* A Doctor, — the penman and bard of the Society — au« 
thor of several poems. He first gave the epithet " Eme- 
rald Isle " to Ireland. 

f T. W. Tone, who was an emissary from the Irish re- 
bels to the French Directory, and held a French commis- 


But alas my race is ended, 
By a shameful death I fell ; 
All my guiltless kindred branded, 
Hear me then ye fiends of hell. 

See these ghastly spectres round ye, 
Each an hempen halter bears ; 
Heav'n will now at length confound ye, 
Tis for you the rope he wears. 

Have you seen the soaring eagle, 
Pounce upon the hare below ; 
Have you seen the furious beagle, 
Rush upon his brush tailed foe. 

Lo! but hark what dismal howling, 
Hark what cries assail our ears ; 
Who flies first — the doughty Dowling, 
Now runs Webb, and now runs Sheares.* 


Tis the halter so has scared him, 
Dreadful sight to guilty eyes ; 
Had the devil come he'd dared him, 
From a rope the felon flies. 

Hear the noise and see the bustle, 
Now flies Bond and blasphemy ; 
Empty Lewins, puny Russel, 
Bandy Wright and Dixon see. 

* All United Irishmen. The brothers Sheares were 
afterwards hanged. 



See who is he yonder stirring, 
Who to hide employs each art ; 
O ! art thou there dirty Curran ? 
Monkey face and Vipers heart ! 

Who is he with terror shaking, 
Underneath a shop-board hid; 
*Tis what once was Major Bacon, 
Who could cribbage as he did ! 

Who art thou with block and axe on, 
Art thou trembling traitor there ; 
Come thou forth unlucky Jackson,* 
From beneath M'Dermots chair. 

Now a tribe of nameless traitors, 
Mixt in vile confusion throng ; 
Pimps, attornies, tailors, waiters, 
Scud with hasty steps along. 

Just so pale, so wan, so terrified, 
So with panting horror scared ; 
Once they from the haughty sheriff hied, 
When unbidden he appeared. 

Still the room is stained with treason, 
Tho* the coward crew is fled ; 
Let us now their papers seize on, 
Embryo libels yet unread. 

* Rev. W. Jackson, Agent for the French Directory to 
the United Irishmen, — afterwards convicted of treason and 


Here exclaims the chieftain spectre, 
Burn their papers, burn their plans; 
These are from their Grand Director, 
Long may he remain in France. 

Here are rules to raise defenders, 
Here the weakness of the coast ; 
Artful libels fit for sounders, 
Treason for the Morning Post. 

Here are challenges for judges, 
Fairly penned and fit to fill ; 
Now their favorite Priestly trudges, 
Burn despised sire of ill. 

Burn these sons of insurrection, 
Price, and Macintosh, and Paine ; 
Heap the pile w^ith this collection, 
Burn the democratic train. 

Muir, and Margarot, and Skirving, 
Gerald, Dry, and Dance, and Frost ;* 
Dignum, too, the w r ell deserving, 
Now your letters in are tost. 

Here, but hark the dawn approaches, 
Urge the all devouring fire ; 
Hark the cock our stay reproaches, 
From this nether world retire. 

* All preachers or actors of sedition. 


Chanticleer his larum sounded, 
Every ghost tho' fond to stay; 
Instant at the summons bounded, 
Yielding to the voice of day. 

Part II. 



■ Thi»gs unattempted yet in prose or rhyme," 
I fain would sing— and be the subject Lyme. 

Far on the bosom of the circling bay, 
That sweeps from rocky Portland west away ; 
Where the first blush of early morning dawns, 
"With laughing light on Devon's lovely lawns ; 
Beneath tall cliffs that o'er the ocean frown, 
Reclines the quiet unpretending town ; 
And snugly nestled in that circling sweep> 
From a green vale looks forth upon the deep. 
Unvexed by crowds and little known to fame, 
Though on her front she bears the royal name.* 
Here tranquil joys a resting place have found, 
And calm domestic comfort breathes around ; 
Here poor contentment finds repose and health, 
Nor fears the insolence of neighbouring wealth ; 
Here patient Thrift her little store can nurse, 
And decent Pride can husband his poor purse ; 
The war-worn Veteran bending to the earth, 
With plenty here can trim his humble hearth ; 
And hither broken Fashion will repair, 
To shun the scenes she can no longer share ; 

* Lyme Regis, in Dorsetshire, on the Eastern border of 
Devon, was formerly a port of consequence ; it has still a 
little trade ; but the roads to it lying over very steep hills, 
and its ancient Pier (called the Cobb) being much decayed, 
it has not advanced with the general prosperity of the em- 
pire. It contains 360 houses, and 1925 inhabitants; re- 
turns two members to Parliament ; 143 miles from London, 
and in Summer is resorted to for its excellent sea bathing, 

And though still missing from her humble bos. 

The luxuries she can no more afford ; 

Often her little means consigned to waste, 

To keep the farce of dignity and taste. 

The "sweet boudoir' 7 — the poor but gay saloon, 

And the dull harp unconscious of a tune, 

While the sad slave of all this state is fed 

On scanty morsels of unrelished bread. 

Here too are pleasures free from guilt or shame ; 

The sportive dance the cheap and sober game, 

The idler's library — the sheltered walk — 

The serious converse — the enlivening talk, 

The week-day business and the sabbath's calm, 

The church o'er flowing and the heartfelt psalm. 

Health o'er the lucid wave inviting stands, 

And calls the weak to tread these yellow sands; 

Or climb the toilsome cliff with labouring breast, 

To give repose and appetite a zest. 

While tenantless the house of bondage lies ;* 

And Nature smiles in all her countless dyes. 

Yet even amidst these blessings may be seen, 

Some wayward Spirit sick with party spleen ; 

That with an appetite perverted pines, 

Unless he thinks his country's weal declines ; 

Though peace and comfort all around him rise, 

And stand so obvious to his angry eyes, 

That he might fairly feel his hopes untrue ; 

Still does the weekly press his bile renew, 

And prove midst glories gain'd and victories won, 

That England is, or ought to be, undone. f 

* The goal of Lyme, known by the unexplained name of 
Cocknamoyle, or Cockamoyle, stands unoccupied. 

-f* The class of Antipatriots seems peculiar to England. 
In other countries individual traitors are found whose cor- 
rupt passions or purposes debauch them from the natural 
love of their country ; but they work in secret and conceal 
their miscreancy : in England only do they form an avowed 
class exulting in the distresses, exaggerating the losses, and 
depreciating the glories and successes of their country. — 

Tor here — ^even here wall slander force its way, 
And here each newest poison of the day, 
Hot from corrupted London's foulest slime, 
Is duly sped to taint the air of Lyme. 
The vulgar clamour and the beastly bray, 
The coward lie that stabs and slinks away; 
And those fit allies of sedition's crew, 
The impious novel and the false review, 
The songs of lewd Cotytto's filthy train, 
The atheist reverie, the incestuous strain; 
And his whose rancorous hatred of mankind, 
Is justice to his own polluted mind. 
But stiM rejected by the wise and just, 
They find contempt and only raise disgust; 
And it is fit that this malignant band, 
Should ever wear in front a warning brand ; 
That rankling Treason still should be combined, 
With all of loathsome to the human mind. 
That he who hates the Altar and the Throne, 
His Maker and his ordinance disown; 
That he whose factious cries the laws assail, 
Should gloat in crimes at which the world turns 

That he whose soul discordant and impure. 
No sight of guiltless quiet can endure ; 
Should raise the serpent hiss at woman's name,* 
The dearest tie that binds the social frame. 

•—The French Emigrants, whose cause we were fighting, 
were wont to rejoice in the very victories which seemed to 
seal their interminable exile, while persons born in England, 
I will not call them Englishmen, "though calved in West- 
minster, deplore the triumph of Warterloo ; aye, and record 
their Antipatriotism in prose and verse. 

* One of this gang who styles himself a critic in his Lec- 
tures read before some Cockney Club, (Institution I believe 
it is called in their slang) has dared to utter against the 
whole race of English Women, a slander so foul and univer- 
sal, as should induce every father, son, and brother, in the 
kingdom to arm himself with a whip-— 

"To lash the rascal naked thro* the world, 

" Even from the East to West/ 1 

The first best blessing sent him from above, 
To form rude man to pure devoted love, 
To sooth his selfish violence and show, 
A glimpse of Heaven in happiness below. — 
When commerce ill or feebly understood, 
Committed our fair fleeces to the flood,* 
And sent the treasures of our verdant downs, 
To swell the turgid wealth of Belgian towns ; 
The painful pack-horse toiled through many a lane, 
Even now impervious to the cumbrous wain, 
Patient o'er steep and tedious ways to climb : 
And pour these riches in the lap of Lyme. 
Then stretched the massive pier into the wave,f 
The fragile bark to shelter or to save ; 
Then rose the frequent mansion fair and gay, 
And looked delighted o'er the silver bay ; 
Then bustling wealth and happy labour smiled, 
And the snug port was Traffick's favourite child. 
But times are changed — the smooth and spacious 

And still canal now bear the gainful load, 

Through what polluted channnel this wretch may 

have crawled into existence it would be worse than loss of 
time to enquire ; but we may be allowed to wonder that 
such things should be delivered with impunity before per- 
sons addressed -as "Ladies and Gentlemen." Yet so it is, 
and it would be quite as erroneous as to estimate a man's 
moral character by the support he receives from a West- 
minster mob, and to infer from thence that he was nei- 
ther a swindler, a libeller, nor an assassin, as to suppose 
that a Cockney Lecturer need possess the qualities of de- 
cency and common sense. 
* "Committed her fair innocence to the flood." — Milton, 
f This curious sample of engineering is called the Cobb, 
(i. e. Kop Head) it is at present under partial repair, having 
been much injured by a tremendous storm in 1816. Na- 
ture seems to point out a foundation for its continuation 
in a ledge of rock stretching southward from its present ex- 
tremity into the bay, such an addition would form the best 
Harbour between Plymouth and Portsmouth, and secure 
shipping from the dangers of Portland Race. 

Destined to exercise a British loom, 
In wealthy Bradford or in pious Frome.* 
And since steep hills their barrier interpose. 
Leave the poor port to calm and dull repose; 
Perchance did not these lofty hills exclude, 
The world upon our comforts would intrude ; 
And with its acts of luxury and gain, 
Bring sordid vice and sorrow in her train. 
But while the crowded mast and frequent sail, 
Gave wealth and bustle to this lovely vale, 
Then often Lyme thy little navy bore, 
The flower of England to the Gallic shore.f 
And still may Fancy from thy ruined pier, 
Behold embark the heroes of Poictier, 
Or those who won the prize of Cressy's field, 
Or saw at Agincourt the Frenchman yield ; 
How did their gorgeous banners sweeep the air, 
Neville and Bourchier, Mortimer or Vere ; 
Where now those mighty names, and higher yet, 
Greater than all — where is Plantagenet ; 
Whelmed in the tide of time entombed they lie, 
In thy dark sepulchres — Mortality. X 
When haughty Philip's unrelenting hate, 
And bigot wrath in fancied strength elate : 
Doomed our fair land to bear the yoke of Spain, 
And spread his proud Armada o'er the main; 

* Frome deserves this epithet, it was the first to carry 
into effect by a noble subscription the Act of 1818 for build- 
ing additional churches. 

f Lyme frequently furnished shipping to the Plantagenet 
Kings for transporting armies into France. 

X These lines are taken from a speech of Lord Crewe 
upon the Oxford claim of Peerage, which with more taste 
than is usual in Law writers, Mr. Cruise has quoted in his 
digest ; but Mr. Cruise may be permitted to enter into the 
enthusiasm of Lord Crewe, since according to the West 
Country — 

Crawys, Crocker, and Coplestone, 
When the Conqueror came, were at home. 

Then gallantry and loyalty were seen, 
In eager hope around their patriot Queen ; 
And as the glorious woman gave the word, 
Forth from the scabbard leaped each English 

From many a sylvan cove and grassy coombe, 
Hushed forth her heroes from the plough & loom ; 
And hands that only held the scythe before, 
Unfurled the sail and plyed the labouring oar ; 
With honest zeal and English courage warmed, 
Their countless barks around th' invader swarmed; 
Then Drake and Frobisher and Hawkins bore, 
Their Sovereign's standard from the western shore. 
And formed alike to win and rule all hearts, 
The glorious Raleigh — Lord of Arms and Arts. 
And while they swept her castles from the main. 
Crushed all the dawning hopes of haughty Spain.* 
Then Lymef beheld those lofty castles ride, 
In short-lived triumph o'er the swelling tide ; 
And boldly sent her little fleet to dare, 
Th' insulting foe and in the Victory share. 
Then did her maidens and her matrons still 
With breathless expectation crowd the hill, 
And strain across the wave the aching sight, 
To trace their townsmens banner thro' the fight, 
And while exulting infants shouted loud, 
As broke the flashes through the sulphury cloud : 
Oft did the visage pale and frequent start, 
Betray the pangs that rent the female heart. 
Lest in the mingled sounds that meet her ear, 
Might float the dying groans of some one dear ; 

* The zealous patriotism of the West of England on the 
appearance of the Spanish Armada, when every little port 
sent out its flotilla, and every gentleman armed himself and 
his tenantry to man these diminutive navies, is well des- 
cribed by Camden. Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, and Ra- 
leigh, those renowned Admirals of Elizabeth were all of 

f The engagement with the Armada commenced within 
view of Lyme. 

And well I deem that proud Armada bore, 
One heart that shuddered at its inmost core, 
To feel there hung upon that day's debate, 
His country's rain or his own sad fate. 
Last of a glorious race, his bigot creed, * 
Could urge the wish to see his country bleed, 
Yet gladly did his English feelings share, 
In that defeat which gave him to despair — 
When rankling from Geneva's sternest school, f 
The restless Puritan aspired to rule ; 
And with unholy cant and fraudful arts, 
Cheated their Monarch of his people's hearts ; 
Till England's sons beguiled by quibbling words, J 
Against his person bent their hostile swords. 
Pampered with wealth deceiving or deceived ; 
Too deeply Lyme the factious taint received ; 
The rebel banner on her wall displayed, 
His measures thwarted and his progress stayed. 
While faithful Isca|| with protecting arm, 
Shielded his Queen and royal babe from harm ; 
For different far the spirit that possessed : 
Dammonia's sons — the patriots of the West. 

* The last Earl of Westmoreland, of the name of Neville, 
having failed in an insurrection raised for restoration of 
Popery, when, as Shakespear says of it — 

" Certain stars shot madly from their spheres," 

fled to Spain, and was on board the Armada, he died in po- 
verty in Flanders. 

f Countries which have suffered under general contempt 
have in more instances than one repaid the injury with in- 
terest : Geneva, and Corsica, in producing Calvin, Necker, 
and Buonaparte, have taken ample revenge for the scorn of 

X "The good old cause" of " The King and Parliament." 
against the King's person and authority. 

|| Exeter (Isca Daumoriorum) was the only place in En- 
gland where the Queen of Charles I. could rest in safety 
while she gave birth to the lovely and unfortunate Henrietta, 
afterwards Duches of Orleans. 


Steady in faith* and firm to England's laws, 
Their truth gave lustre to their Sovereign's cause j 
Those gallant soula who crowned on Stratton's 

height, f 
In proud embrace the perils of the fight ; 
Or up the steepy sides of Landsdowne led, 
With Hop ton conquered or with Granville bled. J 

* Of the Western Army, Clarendon says, "The fame of 
their religion and discipline was not less than that of their 

f The Royal army in four columns attacked the Parliament 
Forces of more than twice their number, strongly posted 
on the hill of Stratton, in Cornwall, after many hours se- 
vere contest, they had gained the middle of the ascent, when 
their ammunition was exhausted ; they then relied on the 
pike, the forerunner of the British bayonet, and rushing 
forward overthrew the enemy, took their General prisoner, 
and as the day closed, met altogether on the top of the hill, 
"where," says the historian, "they embraced with un- 
speakable joy." 

% Sir Beville Granville, (not Grenville,) of a Devonshire 
family, for many centuries distinguished by loyalty and 
patriotism, unstained by arrogance or faction. 

The intrepid devotion of Sir Richard Granville in a sea 
fight off the Azores, in 1561, forms a glorious feature in 
our naval history. The courage and conduct of Sir Beville, 
and the unwearied activity of his brother, Sir Richard, long 
sustained the Royal cause in the West ; and the services of 
Sir John Granville, (son of Sir Beville,) in managing the 
restoration with his kinsman, General Monk, were rewarded 
by the Earldom of Bath, and the gratitude of the Nation. 

The distinction of name above adverted to becomes ne- 
cessary on more grounds than one. The spleen of Lord 
Clarendon, who had a personal quarrel with Sir Richard, 
has descended to the petty perverseness of writing the name 
Grenville, and Greenville, and sometimes Greenfield, in his 

It is observed, that every noble family which could claim 
descent from the Grarrvilles^ has embodied its name and 
titles with their honours. The family of Thynne has taken 
the title of Bath; that of Gower, Viscounty of Granville^ and 
even the unaccountable Shelburn, in adopting the title of 
Landsdowae, paid this homage to his loyai ancestor. 

It is from a similar feeling that Devonshire men and their 


Berkeley* and Basset, Arundel and Ball, 
Trevanion, Slanning, glorious in their fall. 

descendants, at whatever distance of time and place, are 
anxious to assert their connexion with that county — he 
who reads the story of the west country loyalists in the pages 
of Clarendon will acknowledge that it is a connexion to be 
proud of. 

The account of Sir Richard Granville's action may be 
found at full in Hume, vol. 5, p. 522. 

In a small vessel with one hundred and three men, he 
was surrounded by fifty three sail of Spaniards with ten 
thousand men — he fought for twenty three hours — repelled 
fifteen attempts to board him, and destroyed four ships and 
a thousand of the enemy, nor until he was severely wounded, 
and had in vain proposed to blow up his ship, was he com- 
pelled by the remnant of his crew to strike his colours — 
the vessel sunk soon after with two hundred Spaniards, and 
Sir Richard died in a few days, his last words were "Here 
die I, Richard Granville, with a joyful and quiet mind ; 
for that I have ended my life as a true Soldier ought to do, 
righting for his country, queen, religion, and honour — my 
soul willingly departing from this body leaving behind the 
lasting fame of having behaved as every valiant Soldier is 
bound to do." 

Of Sir Beville Granville's fall at Landsdowne, the noble 
Historian of the Civil Wars says: — 

''That which would have clouded any victory, and made 
the loss of others less spoken of, was the death of Sir Be- 
ville Granviile. He was indeed an excellent person, whose 
activity, interest and reputation was the foundation of what 
had been done in Cornwall, and his temper and affection so 
public " (patriotic/' that no accident which happened 
could make any impression on him, and his example ktpt 
others from taking any thing ill, or at least seeming to do 
so : in a word, a brighter courage, and a gentler disposition 
were never married together to make the most cheerful and 
innocent conversation." 

*Hopton, Arundel, Berkeley, Godolphin, Trevanion, Slan- 
ning, and Granville. Of Trevanion and Slanning, Clarendon 
says that "led by no impulsion but that of conscience a*id 
their own observation of the great conductors (for they 
were both of the House of Commons) they engaged them- 
selves in the opposition to Parliament. 

"They were both young, neither of them eight and twenty, 
and of entire friendship to each other v ana to Sir Beville 


And high Godolphin, Harris brave and good, 
And generous Monk himself of regal blood;* 

Granville, * * * they were both mortally wounded at the 
same moment * * * both had the ro3 7 al sacrifice of their 
sovereign's particular sorrow, and the concurrence of all 
good men ; and that which is a greater solemnity to their 
memories, as it fares with most great and virtuous men 
whose loss is better understood afterwards, they were as 
often lamented as the accidents in the public affairs made 
the courage and loyalty of the Cornish of the greatest sig- 

Hopton, Arundel, and Berkeley, were raised to the Peer- 
age, Godolphin is thus celebrated by Hobbes of Malmsbury. 

"1 have known clearness of judgement, and largeness of 
fancy, strength of reason, and graceful elocution, a cou- 
rage for war, and a fear for the laws, and all eminently in 
one man, and that was my most noble and learned friend 
Mr. Sydney Godolphin, who, hating no man, nor hated of 
any, was unfortunately slain in the beginning of the late 
Civil War, in a public quarrel, by an undiscerned and uiidis- 
eerning hand." 

Of the four above mentioned who fell in battle the un- 
couth rhyme of the West will shew how ruinous their loss 
was supposed to be to the Royal cause. 
"The four wheels of Charles's Wain, 
" Granville, Godolphin, Trevanion, Slanning slain." 

* It is a part of the cant of faction to impute obscure 
birth to its opponents. We cannot forget that thisreproach 
was cast on Clive and Warren Hastings. Clive, who pos- 
sessed a patrimony derived from forefathers, settled before 
the conquest, and Hastings, who has just (Oct. 1818) been 
laid in his paternal sepulchre amidst ancestors the Lords of 
Daylesford for the last six hundred years. So it was with 
Monk, who came one way of the Plantagenets, (Edward 
the IV. was his father's great grandfather) and in whose 
veins ran the noblest blood of Devonshire. Yet was he 
by the Hogg's and Higginses of the day taunted with obscu- 
rity of birth. 

A more serious charge is made against him in the catch- 
penny publication called ' the Historical work', that he be- 
trayed confidential letters in order to effect the (merited) 
conviction of Argyle. It is, in the first instance, satisfactory 
to trace the story to the gabble of Burnett ; and next, to 
find that Argyle's trial, reported with abundant tediousness, 
does not offer a single syllable in support of it. 


And yet another and a dearer name, 

Not blazoned in the gorgeous rolls of fame ; 

But fondly still revered in local lore, 

On Taws sequestered banks, and Tamars sylvan 

But vain their stedfast faith, their courage tried, 
By traitor hands the royal martyr died. 
Then democratic despotism arose, 
And hapless England mourning o'er her woes, 
Saw anarchy to anarchy succeed, 
Her temples totter, and her children bleed. 
These were the triumphs of revolted Lyme, 
But sorrows came in their appointed time, 
When wretched Monmouth's f cause she madly 

His feeble title, and his feebler mind ; 
Then did her festive streets with rapture ring, 
As her fair virgins met the phantom king ; 
And wreathed their garlands on his luckless sword, 
And in his hands reposed the sacred word. 
Short joy ! too soon she heard of Sedgemoor's day, 
The double treason of the coward Grey ; 
Their humbled hero crouching on his knee, 
To bend his bigot uncle's harsh decree ; 
The savage nature that his tears withstood, 
And his last hour of misery and blood. 
But still the storm was distant — soon the vale 
Re-echoed sad lament and fruitless wail ; 
Where those fair virgins now — the tyrant's rage, 
Nor spared their beauteous forms or tender age ; 
When Kirk and Jefferies, ministers of hell, 

* The weak and unfortunate Monmouth landed at Lymei 
where (as afterwards at Taunton) a deputation of young 
■women presented him garlands and a bible. The ruin of 
his enterprize by the cowardice of Lord Grey, at Sedgemoor; 
his miserable and fruitless supplications for life ; his cruel 
death, and the bloody campaign of Kirk and Jeffries in the 
counties which had received him, are recorded in the His- 
tories of England. 


Upon this hapless town in vengeance fell. 
And breathes a Briton who desires once more 
To rouse these horrors on his native shore ; 
And for vain shadows of more specious form, 
Expose his country to the ruthless storm. 
Can we not see in history's passing page 
How surely slavery crowns a people's rage : 
That wild and headlong change but once begun, 
The prize at last will by the sword be won : 
And wasted nations bleed at evey veto, 
That Cromwell or Napoleon may reign : 
Till in its mercy Heaven points out the way 
To Louis or to William's juster sway. 
No I to our country give the honours due, 
Our anti-patriots are the noisy few : 
(t Sick of self love" by vain delusions led, 
Corruptions in plethoric freedom bred ; 
That swell with momentary pain — and burst 
And leave the patient healthier than at first ; 
While Britons to themselves continue just, 
And still in Heaven's protecting bounty trust, 
Nought shall our country dread from civil rage, 
The secret compact f or the venomed page. 
Here sovereign councils still maintained by thee, 
Hope of the good, and guardian of the free, 
The noble Falkland of our happier day, 
Thy country's friend, unshaken Castlereagh : 
like him, the patriot with the statesman joined, 
Of mildest manner and of firmest mind ; 
Still thy fair course for Britain's welfare hold, 
In honour armed, in conscious virtue bold ; 
Of courage prompt thy sovereign to defend, 

f Mr. Brougham's association in Westmoreland ; his 
branches & affiliations ; his reports and his ribbons, though 
at present professedly for election purposes, are too muc| 
in the taste of the Jacobins, and United Irishmen, not to 
awaken serious attention. "Ribbon-men" have been found 
too mischievous in Ireland, for England to desire their in- 


To serve thy country, or to save thy friend ; 
What William's wish, and Anna's anxious pain, 
And patriot statesmen sought and urged in vain ; 
To thee in favouring hour was given at length, 
To blend our islands in united strength ; 
To crush corrupted faction's dirty trade, 
And send its votaries to the loom and spade ; 
Till unincumbered by domestic foes, 
In her full power Britannia's empire rose; 
Bade the rude sway of wild discussion cease, 
And gave the harrassed world to breathe in peace, 
One who has marked through many a fateful year, 
The happy progress of thy bright career; * 

* A British Minister is, ex officio, the object of calumny: 
a tax he pays for his exaltations. But Lord Castlereagh 
has, besides the enemies common to all Statesmen, enemies 
enflamed by rancorus feeling of personal disappointment. 
The great measure of Union was ruin to the traffic of those 
adventurers so well described by one of their own class, as 
carrying a little pack of patriotism to the Parliamentary 
market, the market is no longer open, and the pack must be 
carried elsewhere. The London newspapers offer at once 
the means of employment and revenge, and hence the vi- 
rulence with which Lord Castlereagh is assailed. 

In perfect consistency of public conduct Lord Castle- 
reagh has not been exceeded. The pledges which he gave, 
as a member of the Northern Club (of Ireland) in 1791, 
have all been triumphantly redeemed. They were to effect 
certain internal arrangements for preserving the indepen* 
dence of the House of Commons, and to obtain a reform 
in the representation. The first was accomplished by the 
Irish Place and Pension Acts ; and the last most completely 
by the Union, which, taking the franchise from one hun- 
dred close boroughs, and leaving the returns to the coun- 
ties, cities, and great towns, has given to Ireland a repre- 
sentation perhaps too democratic. 

It has been a fashion to charge upon Lord Castlereagh 
those acts of violence said to have been committed in sup- 
pressing the rebellion of 1798. It is probable that most of 
these tales of terror might be classed with Mr. Hutchin- 
son's famous statement, which met so full an explanation 
from Mr. Croker, when it appeared that the simple fact of 
exposing the bodies of rebels slain in fight, in orde* that 


One whom his country's sorrow can depress, 
Whilst high his pulses beat at her success ; 
One who to courts and factions never bowed, 
But always what his heart approved avowed ; 
Speaks from that heart with grateful feelings 

For good unhoped, and benefits unsought ; 
Though at safe distance under fervid skies, 
Still ever turned his soul where Britain lies ; 
Though far removed he heard no angry sound, 
Yet could he see the busy scene go round; 
Could see the Fury faction seize the hour, 
Of peevish discontent to grasp at power ; 
Could see the senseless crowd with frenzy wild, 
Turn on its guardians like a froward child ; 
Eager, the matchless blessings they enjoy, 
Their country and its glories to destroy ; 
Who could see this, and not with anguish feel, 
Deep and sad bodings for the public weal. 
When first the tempest gathered fierce and loud, 
And mighty nations sank and empires bowed, 
By Providence upraised, a pilot stood, 
Firm at our helm, and stemmed the raging flood ; 
Through many an arduous day he toiled to save, 
His darling Britain from the threatening wave ; 
And w r hen the angry storm appeared to pause, 
His grateful country crowned him with applause : 
But soon, too soon, the gathering clouds again, 
Burst in terrific outrage o'er the main : 
Again our faithful pilot took his stand, 
With strength alas ! relaxed, and feebler hand ; 

they might be owned and delivered to their friends, was 
made the foundation of a charge of deliberate and ostenta^ 
tious cruelty. 

But as affecting Lord Castlereagh, the refutation of those 
calumnies will be found in the fact, that he was not Mi- 
nister of Ireland until the rebellion had been suppressed, 
and was then only concerned in the subsequent acts of am- 
nesty and mercy, now repaid by slander and ingratitude . 


Worn down with toil he fell, while his last breath, 
Prayed for his country as he sunk in death ; 
Who but remembers that sad day of gloom, 
That gave our Guardian to an early tomb : 
Yet drear as seemed the prospect, though around, 
In fell and hideous shapes destruction frowned ; 
While midst the general dread a motley race, 
Suspicious and suspected, seized his place; 
Britain relied on Heaven's peculiar care, 
And with that trust 'twere impious to despair. 
Though while we wept o'er Pitt and Nelson's bier, 
And e'en the bravest felt that hour of fear ; 
When doubt and danger glared on every side, 
And Tyranny stalked forth with giant stride, 
Wielding each vassal kingdom but to gain, 
Another and another to his chain. 
When coward selfishness and canting fraud, 
Advised submission to the despot's rod ; 
When grief did every British heart o'erwhelm, 
As that fantastic crew assumed the helm ; 
Who toiled a few mad months to wreck our fame, 
And brand with impotence the British name ; 
Who could believe that Britain yet should see, 
The days of splendour which she owes to thee ; 
Thy wisdom could in Wellesley's orient fame, 
See the fit guide to lead the patriot flame ; 
Which bursting forth from universal Spain, 
Aroused mankind to rend the tyrant's chain. 
But these are lofty themes — my humble Muse, 
Again the subject of her verse pursues ; 
Let lowly worth her recollection claim, 
And Lyme exult. in honest Coram'sf name : 
Though mean his station, and his birth obscure, 
Friend of the friendless — patron of the poor ; 
For many an anxious year the good man toiled, 

* Thomas Coram, a mariner of Lyme, by his unceasing 
applications to the powerful and benevolent, succeeded in 
establishing the Hospital for Foundlings, in London. 


To snatch from famine the deserted child \ 
To teach the infant heart its hopes to raise, 
And lift its helpless hands to prayer and praise : 
Heaven on his pious labours deigned to smile, 
And British bounty reared the stately pile ; 
Where thousands saved and sheltered yet proclaim, 
Their ceaseless gratitude to Coram's name. 
Nor shall thy charms dear Up-Lyme be forgot, 
The loaded orchard, and the sheltered cot; 
The racy perfume borne upon the breeze, 
From the full vintage of thy bending trees * 
The modest church, the pure and nameless rill, 
And the wild beauties of thy russet hill s* 
How sweet from hence to see the infant day, 
Dance o'er the rippling wave in wanton play : 
How sweet to see the purple light expand, 
O'er those tall capes that jut upon thy strand, 
Like centinels to guard the lovely land, 
Each after each disposed in order still, 
From Golden Cop to Shipton's lofty hill :f 
That happy bill to be remembered long, 
Embalmed in Lewesdon's animated song ; 
To see the clouds of wreathing smoke that rise, 
Where in the woodland dell the hamlet lies. 
How lovely all, how grateful to the sight, 
Long sickened with the fervid blaze of light, 
That pours on tropic scenes with beam intense, 
Fevers the brain, and maddens every sense. 
And you, dear partner, resting on mine arm, 
Whose presence lent e'en tropic scenes a charm, 
How did your heart with happiness expand, 

* The beautiful vale of Up-Lyme, which seems marked 
out as the track by which to connect Lyme with the great 
London road, but w T hich has been studiously avoided to 
lead the road over two precipitous hills. Up-Lyme is re- 
markable for the beauty and abundance of its orchards. 

t Golden Cop, a remarkable headia v nd near Charmouth. 
Shipton is described in Mr. Crowe's beautiful poem of Lew- 
esdon Hill. 


When once again you pressed a British strand , 

And saw your playful urchins roving wild 

O'er fields that in the glow of summer smiled ; 

Nor felt that happiness disturbed by care, 

Of lurking serpents, or of noon-tide glare. 

How with a pleasure long untasted trace, 

The ruddy bloom of every rustic face ; 

And think how ill the pomp of pride and wealth, 

Exchanged for thee — inestimable health. 

Far to the westward lies an antique pile, 

Round whose grey walls the golden orchards smile ; 

Where Axe through meadows winds his lucid way 

There Blenheim's hero first beheld the day.* 

Rich in his country's love, his poets praise, 

And still unrivalled till our happier days ; 

For dark the traits by faithful history told, 

His crooked counsels, and his lust of gold. 

Ours is the faultless hero, East and West, 

The unchecked triumph of his arms attest ; 

The glorious champion of delivered Spain, 

The tyrant's scourge, the soldier without stain : 

Britannia's pride, Iernes' darling son, 

And Europe's shield, unconquered Wellington. 

Oh ! that my feeble summons could awake, 

The harp of Modor, or the Northern lake ; 

Or his who sung of Fioden's direful frav, 

Or the high strain of Talavera's day. 

To distant times his glories to prolong, 

Then should the theme be equalled by the song ; 

Now to our rural theme, the woodland hill, 

The clustered hamlet, and the glassv rill ; 

Where no swoin opulence usurps the scene, 

Contracts the sunny slopes, the dingles green ; 

* Ash, about five miles from Lyme, now a. farm-house, 
formerly a seat of the Drobe family. Sir Winton Churchill', 
a zealous royalist, having taken refuge here with his bro- 
ther-in-law, Sir John Drobe, his son John, the first Duke 
of Marlborough, was born here in 1650. 


But all is free as is the balmy air, 
Which wealth may taste, and poverty may share. 
The roving eye on yonder up-land meets, 
The track that leads to Pinhay's green retreats, 
But let me the intrusive step forbear, 
The guarded gate prohibits entrance there ; 
And Pinhay, boast of every neighbouring tongue. 
Her cliffs and orchards must remain unsung. 
And hark ! across the dell a welcome peal, 
From yon grey tower proclaims the time of meal; 
And as our lightsome step the hill descends, 
To join our social board and cheerful friends, 
To meet the laughing love of infant eyes, 
And the soft smiles on beauty's cheek that rise ; 
With thoughts elastic as the ambient air, 
Our grateful spirit breathes a fervent prayer, 
That never vice or discord may annoy 
These haunts of innocence and quiet joy; 
And ever 'mongstthem boast delightful vale, 
O'er flowing churches, and an empty jail. 

End of Part I. 


Part II. 

That bell again! but oh! how changed the sound, 
As flote the dull and measured notes around, 
To tell alike the serious and the gay, 
A fellow soul has left its home of clay, 
And passes now the inevitable bourn, 
Which each of us must travel in his turn ; 
And though we know the irrevocable doom, 
Yet act as though secure it ne'er could come. 
And what new victim of Autumnal rage, 
Now takes departure from this busy stage, 
The trappings and the virgin shaw-ments tell, 
A spotless maid has bid this world farewell : 
Few days have passed to her of grief and pain, 
Since last we saw her lead the infant train; 
What time their morning task was cheerly done, 
To sport and glitter in the early sun ; 
How did their little looks for favour vie, 
Or shrink corrected from her watchful eye ; 
How did her gentle voice approval speak, 
How did her kindly hand support the weak ; 
Excite the humble and confirm the gay, 
Herself as mild and innocent as they ; 
That gentle voice is silent, that fine form 
Will now be laid a banquet for the worm ; 
And that pure spirit unincumbered rise, 
To seek its lasting mansion in the skies. 
Now mourners for a time, the funeral train 
Appears to read the lesson not in vain ; 
The solemn service rendering dust to dust, 
And teaching us in whom to place our trust : 
Awakens all to feel the chastening rod, 
And own the power and mercies of our God. 
The earth cast in calls forth a hollow sound, 
That strikes perforce on every bosom round ; 
And tells us in a strain from flattery free, 


Both what we are, and what we soon must be. 

And now the grave is closed, a grassy heap 

Just marks the spot in which her ashes sleep; 

The crowd attest her innocence and truth, 

Deplore her sufferings, and her hapless youth. 

And then disperse, each on his several way, 

To join the sport or business of the day, 

And waste, regardless of its healing hour, 

The precious balsam of this serious hour. 

And I am left alone, below me raves 

The restless ocean, round me are the graves ; 

In vain to them th' incessant surges roar, 

Their silent tenants heed the sound no more ; 

But their ambition sleeps not, still survives 

On many a stone the story of their lives. 

Here one : — six times a Mayor, reclines in state, 

And tells, for history's sake, his name and date; 

For 't would be serious loss to after time, 

Were the world ignorant he was Mayor of Lyme. 

Here lies a wanderer, many a region passed, 

His weary footsteps here are fixed at last ; 

He long in burning climes for wealth had sought, 

And ruined health with riches homeward brought; 

In vain he looked to medicine for aid, 

The rankling poison an his vitals preyed ; 

And when e'en Doctors could not but despair, 

They sent him here to gasp his native air. 

In the next narrow-house a darling maid, 

With trembling hands by sorrowing parents laid, 

Is just recorded by an humble stone, 

But to dear friends and loved companions known ; 

The simple letters that commenced her name, 

Protection for her ashes serve to claim, 

And say no more ; no praise of form or birth, 

But unobtrusive as her modest worth. 

Now, by the path that winds among the tombs, 

With faultering steps an aged rustic comes ; 

Jle stops beside a tomb that seems to raise, 


Some recollection of his earlier days ; 

Questioned he tells me, — " One that I knew well, 

" Is here reposing in his narrow cell ; 

" For many a year with almost brother's love, 

* ■ Did we our varied lot together prove ; 

" Since full of life, with boyish hopes possessed, 

" We left our home, a Borough in the West; 

" Long struggled he in poverty and pain, 

** A scanty living in these parts to gain; 

" At last a rich relation died, whose wealth 

" Could give him every thing but ease and health, 

" His labour ceased indeed, but with it ceased, 

" The power to combat anguish that increased; 

" A little while he held his golden prize, 

" Was rich and wretched, and now here he lies. 

" If you would please to hear, I can relate, 

" The tale of that rich kinsman and his mate ; 

" I had it from the Vicar, full and true, 

" For all from first to last his Reverence knew. 


From twelve years old to forty (bless the mark) 

Was Peter Hogson a pains taking clerk; 

At cyphering he could puzzle half the land, 

And much he boasted his fair Roman hand; 

He, in due time, could accurately spell, 

And round a period excellently well ; 

Knew all the nicety of office forms, 

The hint that checks the hope, the phrase that 

warms ; 
The frothy promise of all meaning clear, 
The harsh rebuke, the cold and haughty sneer ; 
But as they flowed from Hogson' s plodding quill, 
He felt as little for their good or ill, 
As if he were a mere official mill. 
In his sqat form, and hard unmeaning face, 


No jot of genius could th' observer trace; 

Yet Peter Hogson was not quite a fool, 

And from experience gathered many a rule ; 

To lowly men could scarcely be polite, 

Or in a great man's presence stand upright ; 

But most observant of his patron's eye, 

His back was ever bent when he was by ; 

True, Peter Hogson was uncouth and rough, 

His bow was humble, and that was enough; 

And as that bow his patron chanced to please, 

Promotion followed him in due degrees; 

"When many a painful year at pounce and pen, 

Had lifted Hogson above vulgar men; 

It served some useful purposes of state, 

To make old Peter our Chief Magistrate ; 

And he and Abigal were forthwith sent, 

To bless our borough with good government, 

For prudent Peter his designs to aid, 

Had wed his patron's mistress waiting maid ; 

Long time had mistress Hogson, luckless dame, 

Endured in sorrow such a vulgar name ; 

But when upon her spouse a title fell, 

For what exploit no man alive would tell ; 

Then lady Hogson shone forth in her pride, 

And knight and lady simpered side by side; 

At church in grimly consequence he sate, 

And filled with: portly paunch the chair of state ; 

Raised just twelve inches from the vulgar floor, 

His swinish form was seen from either door ; 

Whether he chose to pray, or doze, or snore; 

Full in his front to catch each amourous look, 

The lady Hogson kneeled behind her book ; 

And smoothed her gown in many a decent fold, 

While all around her ogling eyes she rolled ; 

Or else, affecting a religious qualm, 

She swayed her see-saw body to the psalm ; 

And waved her book, and spread her arms abroad, 

To shew the public how she worshipped God ; 


For lady Hogsoiv even at her prayer?, 

Could not forget her mistress cast oil' airs; 

And whatsoever station she might fill, 

In manners was a waiting woman still ; 

Mean, sordid, selfish, arrogant, and vain, 

The knight and lady scorned the borough train ; 

And knowing they deserved the public hate, 

By insolence essayed to keep up state; 

Their ready tool at hand was Lawyer Sneak, 

To cheat the powerful, and oppress the weak; 

The lowest circles of the servile tribe, 

Prepared with smile, and bow, and lie, and gibe, 

To fetch reports, to hint his worship's will, 

And poison in the general car distil ; 

To note who failed in reverence, or was slack, 

Or on the worthy lady turned her back; 

To watch those crimes that no excuse allow, 

A still born courtsey, or a mangled bow ; 

But mid her honours, insolence, and airs, 

Poor Lady Hogson had her secret cares ; 

In her old spouse she could distinctly trace, 

How fast the crow's-feet puckered round his face ! 

In his short neck, red nose, and sunken eyes, 

She saw that death might take him by surprise ; 

And knew how slight, unless possessed of store,. 

The charms of widowhood at fifty-four ; 

Though few those years compared with sixty-seven, 

Which he had numbered on his road to heaven; 

Against that dangerous period to provide, 

She sacrificed e'en consequence and pride ; 

Scanted his table, locked his cellar close, 

And drove expensive follies from his house ; 

Placed every penny carefully at nurse, 

And spared no pains to fill her private purse; 

She thought, if nothing better could be had, 

That Lawyer Sneak was still a comely lad ; 

But fate upon her purpose chose to frown* 

A luckless fever knocked my Lady down; 


Old Peter followed, and his hoarded store, 
Enriched a kinsman driven from his door ; 
While a fine monument all gold and praise, 
His name and virtues to the world displays. 

This was the Vicar's tale, and hence he drew, 
Much useful moral, sound, and just, and true, 
That riches bring not happiness — that man 
Must look for sorrow in life's narrow span, 
That fairest hopes on worldly prospects built, 
Are blighted oft by misery and guilt ; 
But he would add, to cheer our sinking hearts, 
The assurance which the sacred word imparts ; 
That in our deepest sadness — faith supplies, 
A never failing balm for weeping eyes ; 
And who has not his sorrows ? in this vale, 
That spreads her bosom to the southern gale ; 
That decked in nature's plenty seems to smile. 
The loveliest favourite of a lovely isle ; 
Where beauties count the seasons as they run, 
And gather freshness each revolving sun ; 
Where rosy health might hold her happy court, 
And round her joy and innocence resort; 
E'en here can life experience every shade, 
E'en here can folly ruin, vice degrade; 
E'en here can baffled hope distress the mind, 
And fleeting pleasure leave but stings behind ; 
As objects seen at distance oft agree, 
In one soft tint of blended harmony ; 
Which, when submitted to our nearer eyes, 
In broken slopes, and hideous contrast rise ; 
E'en so with man — too oft his outward show, 
May beam with joy and pleasure's splendid glow 
But seen more nearly, passions angry jar, 
And pain, and crime, the fair appearance mar : 
Wretched, indeed, as beings without hope, 


Were we, did this world bound our utmost scope; 
This world, whose choicest gifts oft hear a stain 
Of vice, or guilt, or infamy, or pain : 
Were there not proffered to our seeking eyes, 
A glorious and imperishable prize ; 
Proffered by him All-merciful All-good, 
Who in return asks only gratitude ; 
Yet, your philosophers who hate the light, 
Will rather grovel on in blundering night, 
And, purblind in the radiant blaze of day, 
Prefer his own weak reason's lanthorn ray ; 
E'en now I see him ranging o'er the strand, 
His basket and his hammer in his hand, 
Pride in his heart, and cunning in his eye, 
He comes to prove all Moses wrote, a lie ; 
Decides by oyster shells and rows of mud, 
That all is fable about Noah's flood ; 
Thinks every blow he strikes upon the rock, 
He gives to Genesis a mortal shock ; 
Shews by the cockles in their strata laid, 
That this eternal world was never made ; 
And a Creator briefly thus dismissed, 
Away with fear and worship, creed and priest; 
Then hies him home his wetted shoes to change, 
His specimens and notions to arrange ; 
And with the knowledge he so wisely gleans, 
Fill Scotch Reviews, and Atheist Magazines; 
Others in metaphysic lore refined, 
Become the manglers of the human mind ; 
Strip all its form and loveliness away, 
And bare each loathsome weakness of the day ; 
Then gloating o'er the butcheries of their knife, 
Exulting cry, " of such is human life :" 
But such we were not made; the sordid earth 
That cradles in the infant soul from birth, 
May with gross passions and perverted views 
Be soiled, and spotted, and the taint diffuse 
Upon the immortal spirit ; but a power, 


Benevolent as just, will give the hour 
When purified by rrierits, not its own, 
That spirit may approach his awful throne. 
Again there are, who, as their system serves, 
Detect the ethereal soul in glands and nerves ; 
Or skilfully her secret dwelling trace, 
In the sculls roughness, or the wrinkled face; 
Poor theorists ! th' eternal spark, in vain 
You seek in sordid matter to restrain ; 
Beyond your reach it soars — beyond your sight, 
And finds its dwelling in the realms of light ; 
Whence can this strange anxiety arise, 
Against the light of truth to close our eyes ; 
Does infidelity so cheer the mind, 
That to be happy, mortals must be blind ; 
Does the blank desert of eternal sleep 
Afford consoling views to them that weep, 
Or is it charity would send away 
The sufferer's hope, the wretch's surest stay. 
No ! search the secret out and vice and pride, 
In these delusions firmly are allied; 
And like the rustic whistling in the night, 
Assume false courage to conceal their fright ; 
Some darling passion man would fain indulge, 
And a new scheme to favour it promulge. 
Th' adulterer scoffs at marriage — his pure mind 
Cannot conceive how words the free can bind ; 
Words muttered by a priest too, to controul 
The noble wanderings of his generous soul. 
Incest another loves — another wealth — 
Another sees no mighty harm in stealth ; 
Then moulds a new religion by his rules, 
Or spurns at all as only chains for fools ; 
And thus compendiously discards the clog, 
That interrupts his course, the Decalogue. 
But can these wild delusions always hold, 
Can the still voice within be thus controuled ? 
May they not wake as from a dreadful trance,. 


When wearied down by passion's giddy dance, 

They find themselves in desperate frenzy whirled 

Upon the dizzy brink of either world ; 

And see the dismal vortex yawn below, 

The hideous region of Eternal woe. 

Who then can save them ? He whom they offend, 

E'en he, if yet implored, is still their friend ; 

E'en he, whose promise they have set at nought, 

Will snatch them from the ruin they have sought ; 

The late repentant freely will forgive, 

And bid him leave his wickedness and live ! 

End of Part IL 




The story is to be found in Prince's Worthies of Devon, 
(Ed. 1810, p. 162.) 'That part which relates to the death 
of Sir Andrew Barton is omitted. Barton had been killed 
in a sea-fight with Lord Edward Howard before the 
battle of Flodden. 

On Isca's wooded banks are seen, 

The wreck of Bickleigh's towers ; 
The ruin of its noble walls, 

Its gay and stately towers : 
For Bickleigh's Lord too loyally, 

Sustained his sovereign's cause ; 
And Bickleigh's Hall in ruin fell, 

With England's King and laws. 

It were a tale to stir the heart, 

So tender and so true ; 
To tell how Bickleigh's heir was wooed, 

And won by young Carew : 
And how the pride of wealth bowed down, 

To honour's nobler force ; 
And how their faithful love deserved, 

And found its happy course. 

At evening met on I sea's bank, 

The lovers warm and true ; 
A Courtenay was the maiden, 

And the youth a bold Carew ; 


And never bathed a fairer maid, 

In Kenna's* crystal wave ; 
Nor ever Haccombe's gallant house, 

Sent forth a son more brave • 

*' Alas ! alas ! the maiden cried, 

That we are forced to part ; 
Bat if my guardian rule my hand, 

He cannot rule my heart : 
He thinks his duty urges him, 

Upon our love to frown ; 
But if that duty should be his, 

TTis mine that love to crown. 

" He spreads a long and gorgeous roll, 

Before my dazzled sight ; 
That beams with crowns and coronets, 

And the crest of many a knight : 
Where royal names and titles proud, 

Attest a lofty stem ; 
With Grecia's f high imperial crown, 

And Salem's J diadem. 

" Edessa's jewelled coronet, 

These gorgeous rolls display ; 
And many a lordly title else, 

That long has passed away : 
Until the happiest of his race, 

The Royal Capet's son ; 
In dear and lovely Devon wooed, 

The maid of Okehampton. 

* Kenna. The River Ken near Powderham. 

f The pedigree of Courtenay derived by the Devonshire 
history from the grandson of Louis le Gross, whose father 
assumed the name of Courtenay, and who himself married 
the heiress of the Earl of Devon, Lord of the House of 

X The house of Courtenay- gave :Emperors to Constan- 


" From hence he says your lineage springs, 

With lands and lordships proud ; 
Nor ever to a landless love, 

A Courtenay's heir has bowed ; 
And nothing in its haughty swell, 

That blood is humbled yet ; 
Since mingled with the dangerous tide, 

Of high Plantagenet. 

" But what avail these sounding words, 
And lofty thoughts to me ; 

Or what avail my wide domains, 
Unless my heart be free : 

? T were better far like Baldwin* beg, 
An exile's bitter bread ; 

Than live like Okehampton's high Lord/f- 
in splendour and in dread. 

" But 'tis thy haughty brother's will, 

My guardian stern and high ; 
And for a space I must submit, 

In baffled hope to sigh : 
But thou my chosen Lord shalt be, 

When fails his hated power ; 
Though we alas ! must sadly part, 

Until that blessed hour.' , 

" Though landless be thy faithful squire/* 
The gallant youth replied ; 

tinople, Kings to Jerusalem, and Counts to the Syrian 
principality of Edessa. 

* Baldwin, the last Emperor, was expelled from his do- 
minions, and wandered over Europe to solicit a'ms for the 
maintenance of his dignity and recovery of his ppssessic 

t The Marquis of Exeter, Grandson of Edward IV 
the favourite and afterwards the victim of the jeaiousy oi 
Henry VIII. 


" Yet surely Haccombe's Lord might well, 

Indulge a brothers pride: 
Though high and splendid be thy race, 

Yet will I claim our due ; 
Nor yield to any mortal name, 

The honours of Carew. 

" From Beauclerk's * royal race we come, 

And youngest of our line ; 
We hold the Lords of Windsor, 

And the princely Geraldine : 
It is I ween no churlish stock, 

From which these titles spring ; 
Nor need Carew through landless shame, 

To stand before the king. 

" But oh ! cheer up my lovely maid, 

And hear thy destined Lord ; 
He goes to prove his worth for thee, 

And win thee by his sword : 
Forth by tomorrow's dawn he goes, 

To sail upon the main ; 
And takes with him one humble page, 

A younger brother's train. 

" For since our King f for Normandy, 

Has crossed the foaming deep ; 
The vengeful Scot has threatened high, 

The narrow sea to sweep : 
But the brave Lord Edmond X Howard shows, 

Old England's flag on high ; 

* The Carews of Haccombe derive themselves' from the 
marriage of William with the daughter of Henry I. sur- 
named Beauclerk. The pedigrees differ on the point here 
assumed, but the antiquity of their stock is unquestionable. 

f Henry VIII. 

t Lord Edmond Howard, third son of the Earl of Surry, 
who with his father and elder brother gained the great vic- 
tory at Flodden. 


And with that gallant Lord I go, 
To conquer or to die. 

" To win a glorious name in arms, 

Thy love shall be my guide ; 
Or should my death thy sorrow wake, 

'Twill also raise thy pride : 
For when Carew shall fall 'twill be, 

The foremost in the strife ; 
And should he win a glorious name, 

He claims thee for his wife." 

With many a vow and soft caress, 

The grieving lovers part ; 
And many a time the lovely maid, 

Was pressed against his heart : 
And many a tender sweet farewell, 

And many a fond adieu ; 
Was said between the Courtenay's heir 

And her gallant young Carew, 

Part II. 

Now float's aloft old England's flag 

Upon the freshening breeze ; 
And proudly the Lord Edmond sweeps, 

Along the narrow seas : 
Nor does the wily Scot put forth, 

That red cross flag to meet; 
But in his inmost harbour lurks, 

The safe and cautious fleet. 

The gallant Howard bends his course, 
Along Northumbria's strand ; 

A beacon flames on Cheviot fell, 
The signal flies to land : 


To land to land with eagerness, 

Press every gallant crew ; 
And first and foremost on the beach, 

Is seen the young Carew. 

Nor slacked they of that eager pace, 

Nor bated of their speed ; 
Until at Flodden's feet they stood, 

And looked upon the Tweed : 
There floated Surry's silver bend, 

Upon its ruby field ; 
And soon the tressured lion * was, 

To gasp upon that shield. 

And there on Flodden's dizzy brow, 

The Scottish army proud ; 
Gleamed out by flashes on the sight, 

Like lightning through a cloud : 
The brave Lord Dacre drew his force, 

Upon the plain below ; 
And with the bold Lord Stanley bade, 

Defiance to the foe. 

But deem not that I dare presume* 

To sing of Flodden fight ; 
My humble wing adventures not, 

To soar so high a flight : 
The lofty theme too well deserved, 

A muse of heavenly fire ; 
And well that muse her task hath done, 

On Scot's enchanting lyre. 

Thrice on Lord Edmond Howard pressed, 

A furious Scottish band, 
And thrice the bold Carew was seen, 

Against their force to stand : 

* In honour of the victory of Flodden, the Earl of Surry 


Athwart the line in wild despair, 

At last they rushed amain ; 
And brave Lord Edmond and Carew, 

Were severed from their train. 

" Ride, ride, Lord Edmond for thy life, 

* ' Yon little bridge to gain ; 
" That little bridge against the foe, 

' ' I singly will maintain : 
" Your surcoat on my shoulders throw, 

" The foe shall keep at bay; 
** Ride, ride, Lord Edmond for thy life, 

*' There is no time to stay. 

That little bridge they briefly gained, 

And on the bold Carew ; 
Unwillingly Lord Edmond then, 

His gaudy surcoat threw : 
The furious foe came rushing on, 

And still as thev came niffh ; 
X( Yield, yield, Lord Edmond Howard yield/' 

Was the loud and eager cry. 

"Lord Edmond Howard will not yield," 

Exclaimed the bold Carew ; 
The while across that little bridge, 

His gallant steed he drew ; 
And as the foe approached him, 

Each his bearing did admire ; 
To see a single warrior thus, 

Disdaining to retire. 

And long and stoutly did they fight, 
In most unequal strife; 

had an augmentation of honour made to his arms in the 
tressured Lion of Scotland, the arms of the kingdom, with 
an arrow through his jaws. 


And long Carew maintained his post, 

His liberty and life : 
At length a ford was found at which, 

The Scots passed safely o*er ; 
And now they charge him from behind, 

And press on him before. 

ft Yield, yield, Lord Edmond Howard now, 

" Yield up thyself or die ;" 
" I yield myself," said bold Carew, 

" But never would I fly :" 
And hark what shouts from Flodden rise, 

And from the banks of Till; 
Lord Edmond Howard's banner floats, 

The highest on the hill. 

u Then who art thou," the Captain cried, 

" That art our hard earned prize ; 
" Art thou that Lord whose banner now, 

" On yonder mountain flies :" 
" Nor Lord nor Knight," said young Carew, 

" A landless Squire am I ; 
" But of a race that never yet, 

" Would from the battle fly. 

Now far and wide was heard around, 

A loud victorious shout; 
And over Till and Tweed the Scots, 

Were seen in hasty rout : 
They left their King upon the field, 

While Scotland's noblest blood ; 
Ran swiftly down the mountain's side, 

And mingled with the flood. 

" Tis now our time toiide for life," 

The Scottish leader said ; 
And captive to the flying band, 

The bold Carew was led j 


With haste they fled from that sad field, 

And into Scotland far ; 
Nor drew the rein, nor spared the spur, 

Until they reached Dunbar. 

The gallant Earl of Surry went, 

To view that bloody field ; 
Where many a noble corpse there lay, 

And many a broken shield : 
" And what Lord Edmond," quoth the Earl, 

" Amidst our general joy ; 
4 ■ What clouds the face of my dear son, 

" What grieves my gallant boy." 

" Alas ! Lord Edmond cried," I miss, 

" A fair and gallant youth ; 
" Who gave his life, I fear for mine, 

" A martyr to his truth : 
" The honours of this glorious day, 

" I freely would forego ; 
" That still my brave Carew were safe, 

" With certainty to know." 

Then stepped there forth a young foot page, 

" He was my master dear ; 
" And long in vain I toiled my limbs, 

" To keep my master near; 
f ' On yonder hill for breath I stood, 

" When rushing o'er the plain ; 
" Two warriors came at utmost speed, 

" That little bridge to gain. 

i( They changed their surcoats as they passed, 

" And to my wandering view ; 
-' One rode away to join our force, 

" With the bearings of Carew : 
f a The Howards' arms the other bore, 

" The crosslet and the bend ; 


(( Upon that little bridge he stood, 
" The passage to defend. 

" And long the foe he kept at bay, 

' ' Till by numbers overpowered ; 
" The Scots exulting bade him yield, 

" And called the captive Howard." 
Now letters fair to Scotland go, 

Of ransom free and large ; 
And for Carew two Scottish knights, 

They gladly did discharge. 

And every generous Howard vied, 
To grace a friend so true ; 

Till soon a wealthy Squire of lands, 
Was grown the bold Carew. 

Part III. 

The feast was spread in Bickleigh's Hall, 

And on the topmost tower ; 
The ruddy orbs of Courtenay* glowed, 

To mark the happy hour : 
That closed the rigid guardianship, 

Of Haccombe's haughty Lord ; 
And told the world that Bickleigh's heir, 

No longer was in ward. 

The mirth was high and joyous, 
And gorgeous was the feast ; 

And many an happy yeoman there, 
And many a noble guest : 

When from without a mighty shout, 
And wide the portal flew ; 

* The arms of Courtenay are three tooleaux. 


And through the hall a warrior strode, 
With the hearings of Carew.* 

A single page attended him, 

"With helmet and with shield ; 
WTiere stalked three sable lions, 

Upon a golden field : 
Oh rapid is the glance of love, 

And quick the maiden's eye ; 
Descried the silver crescentf there, 

His mark of cadency. 

The feast became a nuptial feast, 

And mirth and joy went round ; 
That constancy and valour thus, 

Were by love and beauty crowned : 
And many a brave and comely son, 

And many a maiden fair ; 
Soon blessed the union of Carew, 

And Courtenay's lovely heir. 

* The arms of Carew are three lions passant sable, 
•f- His distinction as a second brother. 

End of Part III. 



Inscribed on the Monument of Wm. H. Clatter, 

Capt. of the First Ceylon Regiment, who died 

July 25th, 1820, at Colombo. 

Gentle and firm, affectionate and brave 
A Soldier, and a Christian, fills this grave ; 
Of stedfast honour, and of manners kind, 
Unshaken truth, and independent mind : 
Him a loved partner and dear children mourn, 
By fell disease from their embraces torn ; 
As Husband, Father, Friend, he felt the rod, 
But for himself bowed meekly to his God. 


In full abundance Father hast thou shed, 

Thy dearest gifts on my unworthy head: 

The blessings that a parent's name impart, 

The golden cordial of a partner's heart; 

A competence to meet my anxious thought, 

And fame, I trust, with truth and honour bought ; 

Oh ! deem me not unthankful if I dare, 

For health, sweet health, to lift my humble prayer. 




From Polwheles History of Devonshire, 
Vol 2, p. 420. 

The cliffs adjoining the sea are remarkably nigh, 
craggy, and romantic. The highest Bears the 
marks of, and is supposed to have been, an ancient 
fortress; and still retains the name of Pepper- 
combe Castle. Another, not far distant from 
Peppercombe Castle, is noted for a remarkable 
accident which happened there about half a cen- 
tury ago, which is thus : some of the ancient 
family of Giffard, and others on a party of plea- 
sure, having seated themselves on the top of this 
cliff, which commands an extensive view of the sea, 
one of the Giffard 's (a young man) sitting care- 
lessly near the brink, and turning himself about 
hastily, fell backward over the precipice, upwards 
of one hundred and thirty feet perpendicular, and 
the floor at bottom covered with craggy rocks and 
large stones, yet received no manner of hurt : 
Since which this place has borne the name ef 
Giffard' s Jump. 

In the dark woods of Umberleigh 
Lord Arthur* leads his quiet life, 
Amongst his daughter's children free 
From courtly cares and courtly strife. 

No other wish has he, and yet 
Oft might a thought of lofty things 
Visit the last Plantagenet, 
Sprung from a race of mighty kings ; 

* Plantagenet. Viscount Lisle .^ 


But well, I ween, the jealous mind 
Of his hot nephew he has known, 
Nor is his peaceful soul inclined 
To seek the thorns that fill a throne. 

He leaves to Courtenay and to Pole, 
The favours of that dangerous king, 
Who watches in his gloomy soul, 
The time to make his tiger spring. 

There on the sylvan banks of Taw, 
One lovely daughter blessed his bed, 
And twice her bridal rites he saw, 
Though now he mourns that daughter dead. 

In opening youth to Basset's heir 
Her not unwilling hand she gave, 
But clouded was the prospect fair, 
When Basset filled an early grave : 

But youth and grief will lightly part, 
And Monk the heir of Potheridge came, 
She yielded him her widowed heart, 
And to his halls he bore the dame ; 

Their darling Margaret now is grown 
The wonder of the Torridge side, 
And good Lord Arthur deems that none 
Deserves to claim her for a bride : 

She was his wayward giddy child, 
Unchecked by aught save love's controul, 
And when upon his face she smiled, 
J Twas sunshine to the old man's soul. 

But the young heir of Halsbury 
Tells his soft wish and wins her heart, 
A bold and graceful youth is he, 
And formed to play the lovers part. 


And Parkham bells have told the tale 
That lovely Margaret is his bride, 
And every village in the vale 
Has to that joyous sound replied — 


" Come forth, my love," the bridegroom said, 
4< Come look upon the Severn sea/' 
" Yon cliff that proudly lifts his head 
*' Shall be a seat for you and me." 

In sportive mood the cliff they gained, 
The raptured pair the waters view'd, 
And o'er the edge their sight they strained, 
To mark the wild waves fierce and rude, 

And still to trace the rocky beach, 
Mocking her husband's anxious eye, 
The giddy Margaret forth would stretch, 
And still another look would try : 

To lure her from this dangerous spot 
He turns to point each neighbouring scene — 
" And look my love, where Portledge Court 
" Smiles lovely o'er the level green, 

" And westward, dear, direct thine eyes 
" Where pendent like a sea bird's nest, 
• - In quiet calm Clovelly lies, 
" Reposing on the cliffs high breast; 

4t See Hartiand closing round the bay, 
" Glamorgan's shadowy mountains view, 
" And Lundy, braving ocean's sway, 
M And Dunster's heights of distant blue. 

" Refrain, my dearest love, refrain, 

" Nor wildly tempt this dreadful height, 

" While o'er this giddy brink you strain, 

" The shock may blind your dazzled sight."— 


Her footing fails— his powerful hand 
Saves her — but for a sight of woe, 
He sees her just securely stand, 
And he himself is hurled below. 

Oh bear away that wretched bride 
A dismal road to Halsbury hall, 
This morning saw her in her pride 
And noontide sees her reft of all, 

Lord Arthur is a wretched man 
To see that pale and lifeless child, 
"Who, when that dismal day began 
In joy, and health, and beauty, smiled ; 

And far and near he sends for aid 
To every Leech of healing skill, 
And well are his commands obeyed, 
And soon that mourning hall they fill ; 

But as each remedy applied 
Recalls her back to sense and life, 
'Tis but to tell that wretched bride 
That she no longer is a wife. 

And now q, murmur rises round— 
His voice— his own loved voice— she hears, 
She rushes to the well known sound, 
And bathes him in her joyful tears ; 

" Oh where, and how, my dearest best, 
u Restored to me, to love, and life, 
" What Angel could that fate arrest, 
" Sought by thy wretched reckless wife ?" 

" My humblest grateful thanks," he said, 
" To the All-merciful are due 
" Whose arm has snatched me from the dead, 
" Restored to life, and love, and you ; 


" For he, without whose will, no hair 

" Is idly from our temples shed, 

" Even as I fell in middle air, 

' ■ The means of safety round me spread, 

" 'Twas where of old a ragged oak, 

' ' That halfway down the cliff had grown, 

' ' Forth from a crevice in the rock 

" Its old and tangled root had thrown, 

" With wild convulsive grasp my hands 
" Upon that tangled root I flung, 
" And pendent o'er the stony strand 
" In momentary safety hung — 

" A jutting stone, a gadding briar, 
" Were aids upon my perilous way, 
" (Small are the aids that we require, 
" When love and life the prize display,) 

" And soon to many a wondering friend, 

" Lamenting my untimely doom,,, 

' ' Did I the lower cliff ascend, 

" And hasten to this happy home." 

He ceased, and well you may suppose, 
The gratitude that Margaret felt, 
When in that evenings happy close, 
To pour her fervent thanks she knelt— 

Ages have pass'd, and names are gone 
But living still in local lore- 
Right well the " Gifferds Leap" is known 
To those who tread that rocky shore— 



In a dearth of News. (1790.) 

Goddess, varying as the hours, 
Changeful as the silver Moon, 

That like the sky, in April showers, 
Art jocund now, and sad as soon. 

Where, fickle Goddess, dost thou stray ? 

Why dost now thy trump suspend ? 
Shall the din of battle bray ? 

Does the haughty Spaniard bend ? 

Dost thou laugh at Gallia's train, 
Wrangling for the bubble Power ; 

Empty Statesmen — Patriots vain, 
Strutting, fading, every hour ? 

Dost thou wander through the reeds 
That deck the swampy sides of Scheldt, 

Where Bigotry, in monkish weeds, 
Against too mild a sway rebelled ? 

Or, where the Ottoman array, 
And Austria, glitter to the sight, 

Dost thou watch the live-long day, 
And wait the long impending fight ? 

Dost thou stay in Rufus' hall, 

'Mid the hushed astonished crowd, 

On silver Burke attentive all, 
To echo every breath aloud ? 

Whither, Goddess, shall I turn ? 

Where explore thy hallowed shrine ? 
For thee my bosom still shall burn, 

Nor rest till I can call thee mine. 




Written in 1792. 

" IF in the bosom of this devious wood. 
Far from the sight of man, ye love to dwell, 
Whence frighted Taw escapes with hurried flood, 
While all his waves with panting terror swell — 

Souls of my Fathers — guide my wand'ring feet 
To that dark dell where rest your faded forms, 
Where, far from strife, ye hold communion sweet, 
And, far from care, deride the passing storms." 

I hear the hallowed sound — the yielding boughs 
Obsequious, shew a passage through the grove ; 
I feel my heart beat high, my spirit rouse ; 
And now they speak, in strains of joy and love — 

" Welcome, thrice welcome to this sacred gloom, 
To Fathers for their loyalty renowned, 
Who know the meed of Virtue's deathless bloom, 
Who ne'er the stain of foul dishonour found." 

And now I see a manly form advance, 
Whose open features beam with stern delight ; 
The twilight scarcely glimmers on his lance, 
And his plumed helmet sheds a waving night. 

" My son, (he cries) I marked the rising sigh, 
When thro' the tottering halls you bent your way, 
Where Brightley's walls in dreary ruin lie, 
And even our memory hurries to decay. 


u I saw— with rapture saw the filial tear ; 
Thy pious tribute at a Grandsire's grave ; 
Where, ranged in monumental pomp, appear 
Thy Mothers virtuous, and thy Fathers brave. 

"Tho* proud achievements shew our spotless birth, 
Our loyalty a prouder boast shall prove ; 
For while we trod in mortal form the earth, 
Our king possess' d our swords, our hearts, our love, 

" And when fanatic fury, through the land, 
Ilais'd her infernal head against the Crown, 
I saw a ruffian aim his murderous hand, 
This arm uplifted felled the traitor down. 

" Yet treason triumphed o'er my hapless King ; 
His sacred blood by villain hands was shed : — 
Then did the wretched land with discord ring, 
And anarchy distraeting darkness spread. 

" But e're my wearied eyes had sunk to rest, 
I saw my Sovereign's Son regain his throne ; 
The glorious vision calmed my aching breast, 
I sunk in death, without a parting groan. 

" For you, my Son, attend to my command ; 
Hevere your King — be loyalty your pride, 
And should contending Faction shake the land, 
Prove it rftost firmly— when most fiercely tried/' 




September, 1796. 

" Rise, lovely Plant, around me twine, 
s< And point thy tendrils to the skies ; 
* * Thy weakly form repose on mine : — 
" Arise, my blushing fair, arise ! 

" No longer trail the chilling ground, 
' ' Nor thv fair blossoms thus defile : 
* ' Spread all thy fragrant influence round ; 
" And in supported beauty smile. 

' ' For, sheltered from the wasting breeze, 
1 ' My humble hardy branches spread ; 
' * When Winter strips the prouder trees, 
" He moves unheeded o'er my head." 

Thus, to the Sweet- Pea's roving bloom, 
The modest Laurustinus spoke ; 
Where covered by the friendly gloom, 
He grew beneath a lofty Oak. 

The Sweet Pea blushed a deeper red ; 
'Twas like Eliza's blush of scorn : — 
" And were my beauties formed," she said, 
" Thy homely branches to adorn : 

" What though in each fair blossom dwell 
" The lilly blended with the rose, 
" Which scarce Eliza's cheeks excel, 
if When she with love or anger glows, 


41 Yet hope not in thine homely shade, 
• ' These blended beauties to sustain ; 
" Nor think I want thy vulgar aid, 
44 Against the wind and driving rain : 

44 No ! -round the monarch of the grove, 
" In bold ambition let me twine ; 
44 There pledge my pure and faithful love, 
" And proudly call that monarch mine." 

The clouds of winter veil the sky, 
The whistling winds begin to roar ; 
Around the screaming sea-birds fly. 
And fill with shrieks the frighted shore. 

Around the Oak the Sweet Pea clings, 
And faintly folds her feeble arms ; 
While through his boughs the tempest rings, 
He stands, regardless of her charms. 

In vain, unhappy plant, in vain 
She seeks for aid beneath his power ; 
Her tendrils strew the wasted plain, 
And wild winds tear each blushing flower. 

This little tale, my charming fair, 
A plain, but useful, lesson proves, 
That mutual help and fostering eare, 
Are only found in equal loves. 


Christmas, 1796. 

Now fair and strong the South-East blew, 

And high the billows rose ; 
The French fleet bounded o'er the main, 

Freighted with Erin's foes. 

Oh ! where was Hood, and where was Howe 

And where Cornwallis then ; 
Where Colpoys, Bridport, and Pellew 

And all their gallant train ? 

Nor skill nor courage aught avail, 
Against high Heaven's decrees : 

The storm arose and closed our ports, 
A mist o'erspread the seas* 

For not to feeble mortal Man 

Did God his vengeance trust ; 
He raised his own tremendous arm, 

All powerful as all just. 

Now fierce and loud the tempest roared, 

And swept the quivering main ; 
And part go South, and part go We3t, 

And part the shore attain. 

And trembling on the boisterous wave 

The shattered vessels lie, 
The billows mounting o'er their heads, 

To kiss the bending sky. 

" Arise ye sons of Erin, rise 

" The Gaul is on the shore ; 
" He comes, begrim'd with murder foul, 

" And red with royal gore/' 


The sons of Themis proudly drew 

The sword of Justice bright ; 
And thirty thousand Yeoman's swords 

Reflected back its light. 

Now firm and bold, her patriot Sons 

To Erin's coasts repair ; 
With ardent zeal they hold their march, 

Their banners fill the air. 

In Bantry's deep and rocky bay 

The hostile Navy rode ; 
And now arrived the festal hour 

"When earth beheld her God. 

The impious crews, with anxious eyes, 

Gazed on each verdant plain : 
And mocked and scoffed the holy time, 

With many a jest prophane. 

But sure such loud and angry winds 

Ne'er shook the seas before, 
Nor ever did the glaring clouds 

With such deep thunder roar. 

And fierce and furious is the gale 

That tears the troubled sky ; 
While, trembling in the dreadful blast, 

The boasting cowards fly. 

For thirteen nights and thirteen days 

Their scattered Naw strove ; 
And some were wrecked, and some, despair 

Before the tempest drove, 

Now, ever praised be our God, 
Who saved us from their hand ; 

And never more may foe presume 
To dare this Christian land. 




Say, lovely maid, for pity's sake declare, 
Why with averted eye, and look unkind, 
You chill the fondest visions of my mind ? 
Ah why so merciless, or why so fair ? 

Oh, by that angel- soul which, blest above, 
Looks down with pity on this world of care, 
Which saw the first dawn of my infant love, 
And by her smile forbad me to despair, 

Oh by that soul which shared Eliza's heart, 
Whilst it inspired the lovely Caroline, 
For her sweet sake, thy cause of hate impart, 
Tell me what sad unpardoned fault is mine, 
For her sake to mine anxious prayer incline, 
Nor let me longer thus in doubt and anguish pine. 



In October, 1798. 

Why did I leave my home so fair, 
Where once I roved with lightsome glee ; 
Ye fatal plains of cursed Kildare, 
What charms, alas, have ye for me. 

Why did I leave my woodbine bower, 
To trace those horrid fields of blood, 
Where fell, in Treason's dreadful hour, 
The, brave, the loyal, and the good. 

Ah, let me seek my healthy hill, 
The scene of many a happier day ; 
That scene my troubled breast may still, 
Though pleasure must be far away. 


Delivered in the Character of a Pilgrim, at a 

Masquerade given in Dublin, in celebration of the 

Peace, on the King's Birth-day, 1802. 

Ye Beauties of the Western Isle, 
Ah ! listen to the Pilgrim's tale ; 
Upon his labours kindly smile, 
Who follows you with fervent zeal. 

If nine long years' unceasing toil, 
O'er many a distant land and sea, 
Since last I saw my native Isle, 
Can move your pity — list to me. 

When Discord here began to roam, 
And bade all social comfort cease, 
With heavy heart I left my home, 
A Pilgrim to the shrine of Peace. 

Far, far from Gallia's guilty strand, 
I bent my steps, with fearful haste, 
Where bleak and bare her ruins stand, 
The monuments of ruthless waste. 

In vain to check the rage of war, 
The wilds of rude St. Bernard rose ; 
Even here was urged the blood-stain'd car, 
And red were died the Alpine snows. 

From fair Italians fragrant groves, 
The seats of Love and Piety, 
The trumpet scar'd the frighted Doves, 
Nor Love, nor Peace, were there for me. 


At length, ('twas classic ground I trod,) 
I kissed the rocky shores of Greece ; 
But there, too, War had rais'd his rod, 
And trampled on the fame of Peace. 

From thence to holy Palestine, 
With humbled heart I bent my way ; 
At honoured Salem's sacred shrine 
My vows for Love and Peace to pay. 

But neither Sion's sacred hill, 
Nor Carmel's holy mount were free ; 
The grove of Sharon echoed still, 
With lengthened cries of misery. 

On Acre's walls the Christian Knight, 
The blood-red Cross of England raised : 
In guilty haste, and wild affright, 
The daring Atheist fled amazed. 

Where'er my toilsome steps I turned, 
Pursuing still my weary way, 
That blood-red Cross in glory burned, 
And rescued Nations blessed its sway. 

On Egypt's dark and distant shore, 
I heard the British thunder peal ; 
The blackening smoke, the battle's roar, 
Were mixed with Saba's spicy gale. 

And fiercely through the troubled sky, 
I saw the British lightning dart ; 
The murky clouds began to fly, 
And east and west were seen to part. 

And then my long-expected Star, 
The Star of Peace began to smile ; 
I hailed its lovely beams from far, 
And saw them gild my native Isle. 


Blest Isle ! where Peace and Beauty dwell ; 
No more a wanderer should I roam, 
Would some dear Maid this heart compel 
To pay its vows of truth at home. 

Blest Isle ! th~ Sovereigns natal day, 
Is still a day of joy to thee: 
For him a grateful people pray, 
The friend of Peace and Liberty. 




The vermeil cheek, the glance of fire, 
To kindle or controul desire— 
The eye that boldlv shoots around. 
To seek where conquest may be found— 
The syren voice, the ivory hand, 
Skilled to allure, or to command, 
Displayed for selfish victory, 
May dazzle, but delight not me. 

But oh ! the fond observant eye, 
That marks a father's anxious sigh-— 
The voice that sooths the bed of pain, 
As soft as music's softest strain — 
The hand that tends the couch of care, 
Than polished ivory more fair — 
'Tis piety makes these divine, 
For these I love my Catherine, 

How oft have I listened in vain, 
To the spiritless labours of art, 
While the dull and inanimate strain, 
Could awake no response in the heart, 
But when Catherine pours the sweet song 
In ecstacy trembles each wire, 
And the fancy is hurried along. 
In a full stream of heavenlv tire. 



For The 
25th of October, 1809. 

Depone vanos invidise metus, 
Urbisque fidens dignitate, 
Per plateas animosus aude. 

Hor. ad librum suum. 


Away, away ; far, far away, 

On this auspicious day 

Be strife, and all her baneful brood ! 

Let no discordant sound intrude, 

Upon the festal lay : 

This day to mirth and joy is given, 

And holy gratitude to Heaven, 

Which deigns a nation's prayer to hear, 

And adds another opening year 
To graqe the lengthened reign of George the Good. 


Down the rapid stream of time 
Many a fateful year has roll'd, 

* Written for the celebration of the Jubilee in Dublin. 
The opening stanza is designed to express the very laudable 
and patriotic feeling with which the gentlemen who con- 
ducted this celebration endeavoured to exclude every party 
consideration, and to embrace in the general festivity every 
class of their fellow subjects. 


Since on Windsor's height sublime 
This day an English Monarch told ; 

He who decked in Gallia's spoils, 

Won by the Sable Warrior's toils, 

Reared the ruby cross on high, 

The star of En dish Chivalry ; 
And round his Throne in lovely order set, 
Saw his seven lions of Plantagenet. 


Equal in glories nobly won, 
That decorate fair Windsor's brow, 
Begirt alike by many a gallant son, 
Great George ; far happier thou ! 

The sweetest gift of favouring Heaven, 

Connubial bliss to thee is given, 

Nor dost thou like the widowed Edward mourn 
A faithful Consort's tomb — an Hero's early urn !* 


Whilst frighted Nations pant for breath, 

Or fall — to rise no more, 

And scowling o'er the field of death, 

Stands Gallia grim with gore ; 

Thy happy Islands lift their head in peace, 
And though the fiends of w T ar in angry chase, 

* Edward III. of Windsor, founder of the Order of the 
Garter, was the last English monarch whose reign extended 
to fifty years ; Edward, the Black Prince, the eldest of his 
sons, and Phiiippa his beloved queen, were dead seven years 
before that period. 

" Edward the Black Prince, 
Who on the French ground played a tragedy, 
Making defeat of the full power of France — 
W T hiles his most mighty father on a hill 
Stood smiling to behold his lion's whelp 
Forage in blood of French nobility. — Shakspeare. 


Yell round our ears, in vain the hell-hounds roar, 
Gainst Albion's chalky cliffs and Erin's verdant 


From smoaking ruins — sanguined plains 
The Muse with horror turns the averted eye; 
A nobler theme demands her strains, 
The praise of George the Good and virtuous liberty. 
Happy people — envied king — 
While howling tempests tear each neighbouring 

(Where hopes and fears, for ever on the wing, 
Flit through the troubled air, and vex each ad- 
verse host,) 
With mutual love your hearts in concord glow, 
Such love as patriot kings and grateful subjects 


From farthest India's glowing clime, 
To where the polar wave 
Heaped into pyramids sublime, 
Dares the star of day to brave ; 

Through many a distant land, 

Through many a separated isle, 
Whose fields in golden culture smile, 
Are felt the blessing of thy guardian hand. 


Where'er throughout the admiring world 
Thy navy spreads the sail ; 
Where'er thy standard is unfurl' d, 
The blended Crosses waved on high, 
Give freedom to the gale. 

The wretch, whom fraud or force enthrall, 


Though to the abject ground 
In sordid slavery bound, 
Does he but raise his feeble eye, 
To where that standard fills the sky, 
Does he but breathe the air thy banners fan, 
Instant his chains are burst, his fetters fall, 
He lifts his form erect, and feels himself a man. 


Fostered by thy favouring care,* 

The sister arts, a smiling train, 

A laureate wreath prepare 

To decorate thv reign. 

For thee thev bid the canvas glow, 

For thee the swelling organ blow ; 

And Poetry, celestial maid, 

Exulting boasts of many a name 

Linked with thine in endless fame. 
The bard of Auburn's pensive shade ; 
The moral sage, whose vigorous hand 
Lashed vice and folly from the land ; 
The gentler swain, whose seraph song 
Could charm to serious thought the giddy throng, 
And lure the soul to Heaven in flowery bands along 


But with the honoured dead 

The milder muse is fled : 

An ardent band awakes the lyre, 

To deeds of high emprize and martial fire.t 

* The patronage which our beloved king has bestowed 
on the Fine Arts, in the foundation of the Royal Academy ; 
the encouragement of Musical Science ; and the liberality 
with which Literary talents have been fostered and reward- 
ed ; particularly in the instances of Johnson and Cowper, 
both of whom enjoyed the Royal bounty. 

f The present prevailing taste for heroic composition, 


From Linden bursts the crash of war, 
The Minstrel sings on Teviot's side, 
Of border frays and lordly pride, 
Deep feuds and revels gay ; 
And he whose matin star 
Beams with Apollo's purest ray, 
Pours the proud strain of Trafalgar, 
And Talavera's glorious day. 


To swell the note of praise, 
Fair Science joins her grateful voice, 
Rich in the spoil of ancient days, 
Her letter'd sons in thee rejoice.* 
By thee protected, they explore 
The frozen deep, the burning shore, 
The heaving sand, the palmy isle, 
And through his animated bed, 
To where he hides his oozy head, 
The long reluctant Nile ; 

less than the epic and higher than the haliad, partaking of 
much of the force and dignity of the one, and Bnjoying the 
ease and popular form of the other, is instanced in Camp- 
bell's noble stanzas of Hohenlinden; the Minstrel and Mar- 
mion of Scott ; and the singularly beautiful and animated 
Poems in celebration of Trafalgar and Talavera, attributed 
to an Irish gentleman of no common talents ; these three 
writers have been distinguished by proofs of royal favour ; 
Mr. Campbell has a pension, Mr. Scott a situation of con- 
siderable value, and our young and able countryman has 
been lately called to fill an office of the highest respect and 

* The encouragement of Phipps, Cooke, Park, Vancou- 
ver, and the much slandered Bruce, in their adventurous 
researches ; the additions to astronomical knowledge in the 
discoveries of Herschel, made under His Majesty's immedi- 
ate protection, and the name of Georgium Sidus given by 
the philosopher to the new planet in honour of his patron, 


For thee the Philosophic eye 

Excursive, to the verge of space, 

Sweeps through all the starry sky 

Thy name in distant orbs to trace ; 
That name, to Science and to Virtue dear, 
Shall Memory through immortal ages bear, 


Loyal to her Patriot King, 

Firm in many a dangerous hour, 

And blest in thy paternal power, 

Thy Faithful City stands.* 

Her festive halls with rapture ring, 

Thy name inspires her gallant bands ; 

To thee she consecrates the day, 

To thee devotes the choral lay, 

And while she pours the song of praise, 

She breathes a fervent prayer, 
That Heaven may still her much-loved Sovereign 

To bless his people by his lengthened days. 

* Faithful, the appropriate epithet by which His Majesty 
has been pleased most justly to distinguish his City of Dub- 



March, 1810. 

Yet once again, before we part, 
Here let my lingering eyes delay, 
Here look another last adieu ; 
The scenes that pleased my infant heart, 
And gladdened many a cheerful day, 
These eyes again may never view. 

'Twas here, in life's enchanting hour, 
When all was joy and all was new, 
I frolicked wild in thoughtless glee ; 
And here I twined my fairy bower, 
And here my little garden grew, 
Like me, at random liberty. 

And here, with those on whom the grave 
Has closed in life's first opening bloom, 
My careless steps were wont to stray ; 
Two Brothers, kind, and good, and brave, 
One slow disease laid in the tomb, 
One fell in Erin's dreadful day. 

And never fails their memory dear, 
To wring afresh my sorrowing breast, 
While thus the scenes of happier hours, 
Call forth anew the natural tear, 
And trace again the days so blest, 
When here we twined our fairy bowers. 

'Twas here our anxious Father taught 
Of Honour, Lovalty, and Truth, 
And pressed them on each tender mind ; 
His Hero- Son the lesson caught, 
And martyred in the dawn of youth, 
His sorrowing tutor left behind. 



Here too — but sad reflections rise ; 
Come, let me send my thoughts abroad, 
And scan the lovely scene once more, 
From where beneath the Western skies, 
Of rugged mountains many a load, 
Winds onward to the Eastern shore. 

And thence, where stretched along the wave, 
Howth like a giant monster lies, 
Guarded by his attendant Isles ; 
By fair Clontarf, the Patriot's grave, 
Where spires, and masts, and turrets rise, 
And Dublin in the sun-beam smiles. 

How rich, how varied, laugh arcund, 
The verdant fields, the villas gay, 
The busy town, the swelling sail ; 
How frequent rise in mingled sound, 
The civic stir, the rustic lay, 
The noisy port, the lowing vale. 

And these have each a cheering tone, 
That strikes my heart with rapture stU.. 
With memory of former days ; 
And can, while musing and alone, 
That heart with soothing sorrow fill 
And sad, but lovely,, visions raise. 

And oh ! beneath, a burning sun, 
Or fanned by India's fragrant gales, 
Or sheltered by tjue, lordly palm ; 
Shall here excursive Fancy run, 
And trace again those infant tales. 
This agonizing breast to cafrn. 

Yes; memory is a blessing; given, 
(When free frona guilt's, unholy stain,). 
Where'er our weary foptsteps stray, 


She is an Angel sent from Heaven, 

That lights our hopes and soothes our pain, 

And cheers the wanderer on his way. 


Colombo, 1814. 

" Venea el Labrador cantando aquel romance qui dice, 

" Mala la huvesteis Franceses, 

" En esa de Roncesvalles," &c Don Quix. p. ii. c 9. 

" Where Charlemagne with all his peerage fell, 

" By Fontarabia." Pa&ab. Lost. 

Sing the song of Roncesvalles, 
Arthur's glory, Rowland's fame ; 
Sing again of Fontarabia, 
France's rout and France's shame. 

Warriors of the Thames and Tagus, 
High-born Cavaliers of Spain, 
Brothers in the glorious contest, 
There the bloody field maintain. 

From Vimiera's grassy vallies, 
From Busaco's airy height, 
From Rodrigo's antique towers, 
Rolled along the tide of %ht. 


Fierce it swept o'er Talavera, 
High o'er Badajoz it swelled, 
On through sacred Salamanca, 
Still its furious course it held. 

Red its wave on Albuera, 
O'er Barrosa's mountain hold, 
O'er TarnTa's giant barrier, 
Onward still the torrent rolled. 

Wide and fierce the tide of battle 
Pours on Leon and Castile ; 
Soon the towers of Vittoria 
Its resistless force must feel. 

Who directs that tide of battle ? 
Erin's boast and Albion's pride, 
'Tis our own, our gallant Arthur, 
He directs that dreadful tide. 

Where the haughty Pyreneans 
With their summits cleave the skies, 
Onward moves the gallant Arthur, 
While the hunted Frenchman flies. 

As the Eagle to his aerie, 
High the rising torrent soars, 
Bursting through a thousand vallies, 
Round each rocky base it roars. 

From above our gallant Britons, 
Now the plains of France behold, 
Glowing in their pride of harvest, 
Plains of vegetable gold. 

Like that rich and glowing harvest, 
Spread the invaders over Spain ; 
Swept away by British valour, 
Of their thousands nought remain. 


Stung with rage, the traitor tyrant 
Drives new thousands to the fight, 
On through Gascony advancing, 
Now they climb the gory height. 

Firmly as the Pyreneans, 
British valour meets the shock ; 
Vainly toil the frantic foemen, 
As the wave against the rock. 

Baffled fly those frantic foemen ; 
Gascony beholds their shame ; 
While the echoing Roncesvalles, 
Hears a conquering Rowland's name. 

Shout exulting Lusitania ; 

Shout Ibera's patriot band ; 

Now no more the foot of Frenchmen 

Shall pollute your rescued land. 

Sing the song of Roncesvalles ; 
Arthur's glory, Rowland's fame ; 
Sing again of Fontarabia, 
France's rout and France's shame. 


Colombo , April, 1814. 

The romantic Castle of St. Michael, situated upon 
a lofty insulated Hill, in Mount's Bay, is the 
theme of many a Cornish legend; the most 
prevalent supposes that their 'long lost Arthur* 
resides there, under the immediate guardianship 
of the Archangel, until the time appointed for 
his return to the earth ; and it is to this Milton 
alludes when he says — 

" Where the great vision of the guarded Mount 
te Looks to Namanco's and Bayona's hold." 

The Western Sun had sunk in gold, 
A purple ray o'erspread the tide, 
Where great St. Michael's lofty hold 
Looks o'er the ocean, far and wide. 

And scattered in the parting day, 
Was many a British ensign seen, 
Quick glancing through that purple ray, 
The children of the ocean's Queen. 

Now old Belerium's giant height, 
Fast fading in the shadowy sky, 
Caught the last gleam of western light, 
And gave it hack to Fancy's eye. 

That gleam on high St. Michael fell, 
The guarded Mount in glory blazed ; 
A Bard, aroused by Fancy's spell, 
His song in fear and wonder raised — 


" Great vision of the guarded hill, 
" Our long-lost Arthur's guide and shield 
•' O'er Britain's welfare watchful still, 
" Her stay in many a bloody field. 

11 Across the main thy gleaming spear 
" To fair Bayona points its light ; 
" And red-cross warriors there appear, 
1 ■ Clad in the gory garb of fight. 

11 Thy ruby Cross aloft they raise, 
" Thine ancient star of victory; 
" They emulate our Arthur's: days 
" And Arthur's self again they see. 

" Now o'er the scene of guilt and fraud, 
1 * Where captive Kings their fate deplored, 
" The fierce Iberian lifts the rod, 
* * And Britain waves her angry sword. 

' ' Even in that seat of boasted crime, 

" The tyrant's hated banners fall ; 

" And Vengeance claims her destined time, 

44 And hovers o'er the fated walls. 

• ' And now the hunted robber flies ; 
" The northern skies are filled with light ; 
" Now East and West the nations rise, 
• 4 And rush indignant to the fight. 

ft Now raise the lance and lift the brand ; 
" Pour desolation and dismay, 
" And vengeance on the guilty land, 
" And sweep the faithless race away." 

Flashed the red lightning's angry glare ; 
A mighty voice in thunder broke, 
And cried — " Presumptuous man forbear." 
(It was the sacred Vision spoke.) 


" Dost thou, a creeping worm, presume 
" To wield the dreadful wrath of Heaven ! 
" And are to thee the keys of doom, 
" And life, and death, and vengeance given ! 

" No ; 'tis to Him who looks on all, 
" That all should humbly bow the knee ; 
" And where His wrath or blessings fall, 
" Submissive meet the high decree. 

With humbled pride, the sorrowing Bard 
In silence and in wonder bowed ; 
While the hoar mountain's mighty guard 
Spread thick around his sable cloud. 

Now vanished every glimpse of light ; 
And mount, and cliff, and hold, and bay, 
Sunk in the deep repose of night, 
Awaited the return of day. 



Colombo, August, 1814. 


Hark ! hear ye not a lengthened sound 

Along the wide horizon sweep ? 

It dies in distant murmurs on the deep ; 
And silence, awful and profound, 

Spreading her downy mantle far and near, 

In long expectant pause detains the listening ear. 


Now on their adamantine hinges close 

The brazen gates of war, 
And in that sound that o'er the horizon rose, 

Ye heard the last long thunders of his car ; 
While cheerful as the Orient Star, 

Diffusing light, and life, and love, 
See smiling Peace with jocund footsteps move. 


And is the lovely vision true, 

And is mankind to hope repose, 
Is there no foul malignant fiend abroad, 

To raise again the afflicting rod, 
His hands in blood and terror to imbrue, 
And gorge his lust of power with human woes ? 


Is the rude Russian in his wintry cave 
Safe from ambition's searching sword ? 

Is the swart Spaniard in his chesnut grove 
Free from oppressions murderous horde? 

Can gold the unresisting burgher save, 

Or crouching monarch's soothe the assassin's 


Or does one mighty deluge swallow all, 

And the blank surface shew a front of peace ? 

Beneath the tide must all the nations fall, 

Must Europe and her glories sink and cease ; 

And does not still the red- cross banner wave, 
The beacon light of hope, to succour and to save ? 


Yes ! towering o'er that flood 

Of fraud, and force, and crime, 
Unshaken, unsubdued, 

With aw T ful front sublime, 
Long had Britannia dauntless stood, 

Her frown indignant on the tyrant hurled, 
And waved that cross on high, to cheer the suffering 


Not idly waved that cheering sign ; 

From Calpe's height to Moscow's distant plain, 
Insulted millions felt its force divine, 

And rushed to arms fair freedom to regain ; 

In Titan strength the tyrant rose, 

He poured his vassals on his foes, 
Wave after wave, a countless human tide ; 

And Lusitania's hills with gore were dyed, 
And myriads found a grave in Lithuania's snows. 


Rejoice— the work is done, 

The baffled monster flies : 

And hunted to his lair, 

Till vengeance finds him there, 

He sinks no more to rise — 

The dreadful time is past and gone, 


And Peace, with unaffected smile, 

Exulting looks with parent love o'er continent 
and isle. 


Alas ! (on human joy 

Pale sorrow will intrude, 
And claim a tear :) 

Alas ! for him whose patriot care, 
And piety sincere, 

Between his people and the danger stood, 
And stayed the wasting flood 

That went forth to destroy ! 
Oh that he now might in their triumph share ! 

Alas for George the good ! 


Oh ! that upon that darkened mind 

Obscured by dull disease, 
Almighty power would please 

To pour again the intellectual ray ; 
That filial love exulting might display 

The glories of his delegated sway, 
And his own Britons show, the pride of human 
kind ? 


Song of an Irish Soldier. 

Let some talk of Caesar, as keen as a razor, 

Of Hector and bold Alexander ; 
And if such their will is — why boast of Achilles, 

I'll sing of one greater and grander. 
In spite of all noise and haranguing, 

There's none like brave Arthur of Dangan, 
Who has given our foes such a banging ; 

No hero in story has gather' d such glory, 
As our gallant Arthur of Dangan. 

It was here out in India— he rattled up Scindia, 

And forced him to take his scrapers, 
And then at Assaye — how he pepper' d away, 

You have read of it all in the papers. 
For in spite of all noise and haranguing, 

There's none like brave Arthur of Dangan, 
Who gave the black Rajah a banging, 

No hero, &c. 

When the French were intriguing at cold Copen- 

He dashed through the river Kioge, 
Oh there was such fun, to behold the Danes run. 

And the Holsteiners dancing the bogy. 
For in spite of all noise and haranguing, 

There's none like our Arthur of Dangan, 
Who gave the bold Danes such a banging, 

No hero, &e. 

* The Duke of Wellington was born at Dangan Castle, 
in Ireland. 


In Portugal next — for I stick to my text, 

Ugly Junot he thrashed at Vimeiro, 
But their dirty convention, I beg you wont mention, 

Where they spoilt all the work of the hero, 
For in spite of all noise and haranguing 

There's none like our Arthur of Dangan, 
Who gave ugly Junot a banging, 

No hero, &c. 

Talavera's bright fountains, Buzaco's high moun- 

Salamanca and many miles farther, 
And strongest Sebastians, the enemy's last chance, 

Will tell of the fame of our Arthur ; 
For in spite of all noise and haranguing, 

There's none like brave Arthur of Dangan, 
Who gave the French Marshals a banging, 

No hero, &c. 

I'm almost out of breath, in just tracing his path, 

But still into France he would enter ; 
Though after Toulouse, the Mounseers did not 

On another engagement to venture. 
For awhile ceased their noise and haranguing, 

When they thought of brave Arthur of Dangan^ 
Who gave the Mounseers such a banging, 

No hero, &c. 

Though still Buonaparte, conceited and hearty, 

Declared he could never be beaten ; 
But at famed Waterloo, Arthur proved it untrue, 

And taught him the art of retreating. 
There's an end of his noise and haranguing, 

All thanks to brave Arthur of Dangan, 
Who gave Buonaparte a banging, 

No hero, &c. 



(A True Story.) 



With favouring gale her pleasant course 

The gallant vessel ran, 

And as the sun arose she passed 

The Isle of Andaman. 

There dwells a rude and savage race, 
That with extremest toil, 
A scanty sustenance extort 
From an ungrateful soil. 

The land was almost out of sight, 
When loud the seaboy cried, 
That, struggling with the distan wave, 
A human form he spied. 

Down goes the helm, back go the sails, 
The boat is on the wave ; 
For never yet were Britons slack, 
A human life to save. 

The sturdy crew against the wind 
Long plied the willing oar, 
And to the ship returning glad 
A boy in safety bore. 


Now rescued from impending fate, 
And cheered by generous food, 
By signs he told his luckless tale, 
And well was understood. 

How wand'ring on the sandy shore 
What time the ship he spied, 
At earliest dawn, in boyish play, 
He ventured on the tide. 


In thoughtless eagerness he swam, 
But still the ship went on, 
Until bewildered and perplexed 
He saw the rising sun. 

Far from the ship, and from the shore, 
He struggled long in vain, 
Until no more his youthful limbs 
The labour could sustain. 


And had not then the sailor boy 
Descried him on the wave, 
And had not well the boatmen rowed 
The sea had been his grave. 


The Andaman no more was seen, 
The ship pursued her way, 
For to fair Lanca's verdant isle 
Her destined voyage lay. 



Oh then ! to see that anxious boy, 
Look towards his native land, 
^_nd sadly sigh as he was brought 
To tread a foreign strand. 


Nor Lanea's Isle, nor kindliest care, 
Could aught of joy impart ; 
His mind was on the Andaman, 
For home was in his heart. 


Upon the bleak and lofty cliff 
That looks upon the main, 
The live long day that hoy would sit 
And strain his sight in vain. 


He thought upon his leaf-built hut, 
His hard and simple fare, 
But they were lost — and all to him 
Was dull and dark despair. 


And vainly did the gallant crew 
The boy from danger save, 
For day by day he pined away 
And soon was in his grave. 


And who from Scotia's healthy hills, 
Or Erin's emerald isle, 
Or happy England's fertile fields, 
At such a tale can smile. 



Though boundless regions spread between. 
Though mighty oceans part, 
Who of you all that does not feel 
That Home is in his heart. 

«» » » 


March, 1817. 

Oh ! that the distant hour were come, 
When I might see thee, dear Dundrum ! 
Though bleak and bare thy mountains rise, 
And dreary be thy wintry skies, 
When snowy fields lie all around, 
And the winds moan with sullen sound, 
Yet still amongst thy gloomiest scenes 
What pleasure recollection gleans, 
When she recalls the sheltered nook 
Where oft I loitered with my book ; 
And, reckless of the wintry wind, 
To idle visions gave my mind, 
Or wrapt in contemplation warm 
Regarded not the passing storm ; 
Or springing upward, doffed asiae 
The chains of indolence and pride, 
And full of joy, of life and health, 
Thought not of caution, care or wealth ; 
Climbed fearlessly the mistv hill, 
Though angry words would roar their fill; 
And still at day's departing hour 
Returned to my paternal bower, 
And lost in many a kindred smile 
The sense of tempest and of toil, 


And cheerful in the social room 

Forgot December's frost and gloom, 

While circled round the blazing fire 

The youthful jests that never tire. 

Such were the wintry hours — but when 

Blithe spring came smiling o'er the plain, 

And every primrose oped its eye 

To gaze upon the lovely sky, 

When the soft meadows splangled floor 

Enticed the chariest out of door, 

When the young orchards swelling blush 

Began to shade the timid thrush, 

And the brooks running bright and clear 

Proclaimed that summer days were near, 

When every bush, and all the sky, 

Rang with the birds full melody, 

The scene to heaven would' lift the mind, 

And leaving earthly thoughts behind 

On fancy's pinion would she soar, 

And filled with old poetic lore, 

Would freely dream of matchless song 

In ardent numbers borne along ; 

Of laurels won by lofty rhyme 

And fame that spurns the scythe of time ; 

Till the exhausted wing at length, 

Compelled to feel decay of strength, 

Recalled the thoughts to fellow men, 

And sank to them and earth again. 




Who would wrest the honours due 
From the men of Waterloo, 
When the glorious field is won, 
And the hated Tyrant low ? 
Britain's base degenerate son, 
Madly dares her name to tarnish ; 
To exalt her baffled foe, 
To deplore his fallen state, 
And his infamy to varnish. 
Could such thought admission find 
But in gloomy Harold's mind ! 
Scowling with malignant hate 
On the quiet of mankind ! 

Twice ten years the harrassed world, 
Into wreck and ruin hurl'd, 
Saw the plague of sword and flame 
Riot in fair Freedom's name. 
Tyranny, with blood defil'd, 
Offspring foul of Force and Fraud, 
Clad as holy Freedom's child, 
Stalked with daring front abroad, 
Pouring on the frighted Earth 
Many a lewd and monstrous birth. 
Rout and Rapine sped his way, 
Fear and Folly yelled applause, 
Blood and Ruin marked his sway, 
Rifled Fanes and trampled Laws ; 
Blotting the all-glorious Sun 
Stood the fiend Napoleon — 


Prodigal of human blood 
Long he poured the living flood ; 
Long the tide of conquest leading, 
And o'er wasted nations speeding, 
Grief and misery and dismay, 
Wreck and horror strewed his way. 
Undismayed and unsubdued 
Britain unpolluted stood ! 
Britain, dauntless and alone, 
Lightly threw the hostile shock 
Backward from her island throne, 
Like the wild wave from the rock !- 
And her sons, to freedom true, 
Crowned her fame at Waterloo — 
For on British valour never 
Could avail his fraud. or. force, 
Smiling at each vain endeavour 
Still she staved his impious course : 
Recreant and dismayed he fled 
When a Briton reared his head. 
Acre saw his coward flight, 
From before a British Knight ; 
Egypt saw him leave her strand 
Skulking from a British band. 
Safe on Gallia's guilty shore 
On his impious course he bore ; 
Then Marengo saw his slaughters, 
Jena, Austerlitz, Eylau, 
And the Danube's crimson waters 
Saw the blood of millions flow. 
Millions each returning hour 
Sacrificed to rear his power ; 
Millions sacrificed to him, 
Idol bloody foul and grim ; 
But the retribution due 
Waited him at Waterloo.— 


Does thy race degenerate youth, 
Boast hereditary truth f 
And dost thou their recreant son 
Adulate Napoleon ? 

But Iberia hurst her chain, 
Britain lent her saving hand ; 
Then once more he felt how vain 
Struggling with a British band — 
Trembled then the Tyrant's power, 
As approached his fateful hour : 
Though in fury he went forth, 
Thundering on the distant North. 
Salamanca's fearful story 
Followed with portentous glare, 
Roused the rugged Russ to glory 
Plunged the Tyrant in despair — 
Where are now the thousand legions 
Gathered from his vassal regions, 
That of wealth and conquest dreaming 
Over passed the peaceful Niemen ? 
Moscow lighted their undoing, 
Berezyna saw their ruin ; 
Flying o'er the trackless waste, 
Seeking sepulture in snow, 
Hurrying in breathless haste 
From the vengeance of the foe. — 
In that hideous day of grief 
Where was found their daring chief ? 
Did he seek a glorious ending 
In the vaward of his slaves ? — 
No, but Dnieper saw him wending 
Through the stillness of the night, 
Stealing into coward flight, 
Silent o'er her silent waves. — 


Still survived the power of hell ! 

Still unbroken was the spell ! 

Leipsic saw it dashed asunder, 

Paris heard the Prussian thunder ; 

Then the caitiff Tyrant banished 

To his prison in the ocean, 

Deemed we well the days had vanished 

Of wild outrage and commotion. 

Falsely deemed we, for again 

Issued forth the scourge of men ; 

Onward rushing, till he met 

With the British bayonet, 

Then he found the vengeance due 

To his crimes at Waterloo — 

Arid is this thine idol Harold ? 

Is the despot Freedom's child 

That in Freedom's garb apparelled 

Can inspire thy measures wild ? 

Yes 'tis fit that thou alone 

Adulate Napoleon. — 

Well too fits it that thy lays, 

Chanted to a tyrant's praise, 

Should exalt a ruffian's glory 

O'er the names of modern story. 

Though that monster could assume 

Royal Bourbon's snowy plume, 

While his brother ruffian's hand 

Carried carnage through the land ; 

Though awhile a Bourbon's crown 

Sparkled on his upstart head. 

Justice hurled the villain down, - 

To the undistinguished dead, 

And the groaning earth was rid 

Of the butcher of Madrid. 

To a plant of rancorous root 


Do we owe this hateful fruit ; 

To the poisonous Gallic tree 

Falsely called of Liberty ! 

Hideous plant with slaughter nourished! 

That in human misery flourished ! 

Offspring fell of Force and Knavery, 

Bearing Tyranny and Slavery! 

From that baleful plant of hell 

Marat, Robespierre, and Danton 

In the germ untimely fell ; 

But the fruit in full maturity 

Of its venomous impurity 

Ripen' d in Napoleon. — 

Till the British lightning flashing 

Full upon its lurid trunk, 

Fruit, and trunk, and branches crashing, 

To its native hell it sunk, 

Never more to rise again 

But in Harold's gloomy strain. 

Vain thy prophecies of ill, 

That those dreadful times returning 

Treason once again shall fill 

The sad earth with grief and 

Vainly do such visions rise 

To thy misanthropic eyes ! 

That they never can be true, 

Look, and think of Waterloo ! 

Hie then to disgrace and shame, 

Let thy serpent hissing cease ! 

Slanderer of woman's fame ! 

Ruiner of woman's peace ! 

Into dark oblivion flee, 

Think not that a thing like thee 

Can detract the glory due 

From the men of Waterloo. 


May, 1818. 

Ye cliffs dark and dreary that frown o'er the main, 
Like dross from a furnace confusedly hiirFd ; 

That pent in your iron bound limit restrain 
The scourge of our versatile world : 

Oh whether midst Nature's convulsions and throes, 
When fire with the Ocean contended for power, 

Your rocks from a submarine crater arose, 
And fell in a chaotic shower. 

Or if ye once fenced that magnificent isle, 
Whose beauty the pages of Plato disclose, 

Where happiness sheds its retributive smile 
On bowers of eternal repose. 

Oh ! whether a remnant of Eden or hell, 

Look well, ye rude cliffs, to your perilous trust i 

Remember there now is confined in your dell 
The Friend of war, famine and lust. 

And in that deep dell tho' a paradise bloom, 
Though nature in fulness of beauty be there ! 

To him bloom and beauty are horror and gloom, 
And peace but remorse and despair. 

For fires more intense than the flames of your birth 

In his bosom of baffled malignity rage, 
.And, to satiate his rancour, the desolate earth 
Were now too contracted a stage I 

Though guarded by dragons, your apples of gold 
Were once by the craft of a pirate purloined. 

And poets have chanted, and chroniclers told, 
Of the woes which they wrought to mankind, 


The woes which they wrought were but showers 
of the spring 
To the wild wintry tempest of vengeance and 
Which, if the foul Vulture recover his wing, 
Will follow his flight o'er the flood. 

Then look, ye dark cliffs, to your* ominous trust ; 

For if he escape ye by force or by guile, 
The tempest he wings, in its earliest burst, 

Will wither thy desolate isle. 

Deserted and loathed by the rest of the earth, 
Foul creatures of carnage shall lord o'er each dell, 

And the curse of mankind will attribute your birth 
To a penal eruption of hell.* 

* The eighth and tenth stanzas are supplied by a superior 
pen ; and of the others he who now writes can only claim 
the outline. 




Marshes and quagmires, puddles, pools and swamps, 
Dark matted jungles and long plashy plains, 
Exhaling foetid airs and mortal damps, 
By Kandyan perfidy miscalled a road, 
Through which the luckless traveller must wade, 
Uncheered by sight of man — or man's abode ! 
Gladly I give to you these farewell strains 
Nor e'er again would your repose invade. 
I loathe your noisome fogs — your poisonous mud, 
And the sad stillness of the sultry wood, 
Without a sound the sickening heart to cheer. 
Oh when shall I the western sea breeze hear, 
Bearing old Ocean's intermitted roar, 
As wave succeeding wave assails the sounding 
shore ! 


Dear quiet home, while many a darkening hour 
Of doubtful presage on my fortunes rose, 
And servile caution shunned my dangerous door 
As frowned the vulgar pride of upstart power, 
Still here in peace and love I found repose, 
For peace, and love, and Harriet, were my own, 
And now these gloomy times are past and gone, 
Though I do miss the voices that would raise 


The shout of infant joy as I appeared, 

(That darling band by distance dearer grown, 

Yet still to Heavenly goodness be the praise) 

In thee, dear home, are all my labours cheered ; 

In thee all means of happiness combine, 

For peace, and love, and Harriet, still are mine. 

«»* » 


July 23, 1820. 

And is it so — twelve years to day 

Since first I called my Harriet wife ? 

Can Wedded Love without decay, 

Gild such a portion of our life ? 

Yet Poets sing, and sages say, 

That Brides and ardent Bridegrooms soon 

Awaken from the dream of love 

And little of its rapture prove 

Beyond the transient honey moon : 

Indeed 'tis told — but scarce believed, 

That for twelve moons a faith unshaken 

Has sometimes glowed with constant flame ; 

And then the parties claimed a prize, 

As if a feat they had achieved, 

Magnificent in human eyes 

And loves expiring sway retrieved, 

And once a century thus — a claim 

Is made for Dunmore's flitch of Bacon. 

But since beyond a twelve month none 

Stands on record in song or history, 

This case of mine I needs must own 

Becomes a most perplexing mystery ; 

Because, however time has gone, 

I feel, and sure 'tis passing strange, 


As if a week had scarce passed over, 

As if I were a youthful lover, 

Without a wish my lot to change. 

And Harriet — by that smile so dear, 

(For well her smile can I translate,) 

Tells me I have no cause to fear 

That her affection can abate ; 

Then as through life we downward steer, 

With hearts not likely to grow colder, 

Our love shall time itself deride 

As with the stream we gently glide, 

Although we must grow somewhat older. 

But may not this be all a dream, 

An unsubstantial pleasing show, 

Or are these waters MutwaTs stream, 

Is this the ocean spread below ? 

Is this fierce ray the vernal beam ? 

Is yon blue peak my native hill ? 

Grow those tall palms on Slaney's side ? 

Is yon wild surf our gentle tide ? 

Be still my beating heart — be still — 

Far from the scenes of early joys, 

From seven dear pledges of our love, 

Our gentle girls and lively boys, 

Substantial blessings still we prove, 

Such as from pure affection rise : 

And even on Mutwal's banks can trace 

Remembrance of a milder day, 

While on yon speaking canvas play 

The features of each darling face. — 

Then be it sc— twelve years to day 

Since first I called my Harriet wife, 

Though my brown locks be turned to grey, 

And wrinkles mark my date of life, 

Blessed in her smile I only pray 

To keep that blessing to the end ; 

And that our dear ones long may prove 

Memorials of our faithful love, 

My wife, my mistress, and my friend. 



(A Radical Song.) 

Air " Fall Tyrants, fell!" 


The voice of experience is lost upon fools, 

And history teaches in vain; 
Then, blockheads, a fig for all rational rules, 
And shout for the bones of Tom Paine. 
Bawl Blockheads, Bawl, Bawl, Bawl, 
These are Folly's happy days ; 
Bawl Blockheads, Bawl. 

How delightful to act on a stage of our own 

All the pranks of republican France ; 

Down, down with the Church, and demolish the 

And join in the Carmagnole dance. 
Bawl, &c. 

And down with the Bank, and the 'Change, and St. 

Let London run rivers of blood, 
And shout in his ear, as each egotist falls, 
" It is all for the general good." 

Bawl, &c. 

No matter what misery mankind endure, 
If it forward the demagogue's plan ; 
What blood has effected — more blood must secure 
And what is the life of a man ? 
Bawl, &c. 


Burdett, Hunt, and Cobbett in transient sway, 
May then be exalted on high : 
So Robespiere, Danton, and Marat, had their day, 
Though now " dark and unlovely they lie." 
Bawl, &c. 

Away with the gallows so sombre and slow, 
And up with the brisk guillotine ; 
So each in his turn, by his rival laid low, 
May be quickly removed from the scene. 
Bawl, &c. 

And down with the merchants, the priests, and 

the lawyers, 
The noble, the learned and the great ; 
And up with the tinkers, and taylors, and sawyers, 
Till vagabonds govern the state. 
Bawl, &c. 


(From Catullus.) February, 1821. 

Sirmio of all peninsulas or isles, 
That or on quiet lake or boundless sea 
Neptune embraces — w T ith what joyous smiles 
How pleased, dear lovely spot, I come to thee : 
Scarcely believing I have left behind, 
Bithynia's plains, and thee in safety find. 
Oh what more bless' d than, when relieved from 

The mind throws off its burthen, and o'er worn 
With foreign toil — we come to our own chair, 


And on the bed we longed for sink till morn ! 
This, this alone has recompensed my pain — 
Hail beauteous Sirmio ! — for thy master's sake, 
Rejoice through all the waters of thy lake, 
While through my household halls loud mirth and 
laughter reign. 


July 23, 1821. 

I heard my anxious Harriet say, 
As on that group her eyes she bent, 
" Oh might I hope to see that day ;" 
And well I knew what day she meant — 
Oh grant it Heaven, that she may prove 
That day of joy, that day of love ! 

When once again on Britain's shore 
Her homeward footsteps she may trace — 
That happy day w 7 hich may restore 
Seven loved ones — to her fond embrace. 
In thy dear mercy, gracious Heaven, 
Protect and keep that darling seven ! 

And should it be thy blessed will, 
That I with her that day should see ; 
A hope I humbly cherish still, 
Oh what a day 'twill be for me ; 
When I behold (our exile past,) 
Our children and our home at last. 

My Harriet, now a thirteenth year 
Has closed upon our wedded state ! 


And, Harriet, you are still more dear 
Than when you first pronounced my fate. 
Six annual circuits of the sun, 
But passed — and then our goal is won ! 

Nor let such hope presumptuous seem, 

Which, founded upon years of bliss, 

Indulges in the pleasing dream, 

That future years may be like this ; 

My double confidence to prove 

In Heaven's high will, and Harriet's love. 

But be it good, or be it ill, 

Our future days may have in store ; 

Submissive to Almighty will, 

"With grateful hearts we will adore 

His name from whom all blessings flow 

In Heaven above and Earth below. 


Julv 23rd, 1822. 

Tuesday, July the twenty-third, 

Our wedding-day and not a word, 

In honour of that happy day, 

When Harriet gave herself away ; 

And not a line in verse or prose, 

To celebrate our Darling Rose ; 

How could I such a recreant prove, 

To Harriet's happiness and love. 

Let me collect my puzzled wit, 

I've two good hours to breakfast yet, 

And may with diligence be able, 

To lay an offering on the table. 

And now a fourteenth year is past 

Of calm domestic happiness, 

And every year so like the last, 

So much to love so much to bless, 

That did not some beloved name 

Serve as a mark to fix the date, 

And now thank Heaven those names are eight, 

Each year would seem to be the same. 

To mark this year of calm repose 

And decorate our Indian bower 

My Harriet brings a beauteous flower 

Her smiling cherub lovely Rose. 

And be it soon her happy lot 

Across the main to bear her prize, 

And twine it with that happy knot 

That blooms beneath the western skies. 

On that loved knot all bounteous Power 

All good, all mighty, and all just, 

In whom we live, in whom we trust, 

Thy Heavenly grace and blessing shower. 


July 23rd, 182S. 

My years roll on but rarely now, 
My pen in numbers tries to flow ; 
Or if a simple strain 
Awakes at some delightful thought, 
The spark is chilled as soon as caught, 
And all is dark again. 

Yet is there still one darling theme, 
On which poetic raptures seem, 
About my soul to hover ; 
This day, this joyful happy day, 
When Harriet gave herself away, 
To bless her faithful lover. 

And Harriet when this day we hail, 

Our mutual thanks can never fail, 

To him whose holy will ; 

On us so bountifully pours, 

A ceaseless stream of peaceful hours, 

Pure and unsullied still. 

And for our dear and lovely seven, 

Our earthly gifts from favouring heaven, 

Our anxious prayers arise ; 

In his protection we confide, 

For those dear pledges who abide, 

Beneath far distant skies. 

If fluttered by a mail delayed, 

Think how those feelings are repaid, 

When comes the cheering tale ; 

When the dear letteis skimmed in haste, 

Give our Parental hearts a taste 

Of joys that ne'er can fail. 


And for our Oriental Rose, 

See how her infant beauty grows, 

And see her mind expand ; 

Think the delight that we may meet, 

Should we once see those precious feet, 

On our dear Father land. 

Thanks be to Heaven we have enjoyed, 
Blessings which have not failed or cloyed^ 
And can we hope for more ; 
Yes, let us from his bounteous hand, 
A guidance back to that dear land, 
With humble heart implore. 

In the sweet vallies of the west, 
To pass our waning days at rest, 
Removed from strife and state ; 
And in deep dell or grassy combe, 
Or near our old paternal tomb, 
Our final summons wait. 

For this past year of happy days, 
Again I lift my voice of praise, 
And from my heart I give it ; 
For sure of all that I have passed, 
Had I to choose I'd take the last, 
And wish again to live it. 

July 23rd, 1824. 

Another year brings round our nuptial day, 
And though one heavy cloud has dunned the year, 
And from my Harriet drawn the filial tear, 
Yet have we much of gratitude to pay ; 
For health to us and ours benignly spared, 
When pestilence and death around us glared* 


And she we mourn too well her task had done, 

Too long had pined in agony and pain, 

That in our selfishness we should retain, 

One who her prize had gained, her race had run ; 

Oh ! be it ours her happy lot to share, 

Without her anguish, but with hopes as fair 

Yes, we have much of gratitude to pay, 
That our dear loved ones in a distant land, 
Are still protected by his mighty hand, 
Which when a parent it had ta'en away, 
Raised other guardians in her stead to prove, 
Successors in her kind and careful love. 

A few months more, should Heaven extend our 

And we with those beloved ones may join, 
Or by the lonely Taw, or wandering Teign, 
To celebrate with them his glorious praise ; 
Meantime with joy and gratitude e'en here, 
My Harriet let us close our sixteenth year. 

July 23rd, 1825. 

The anxious sailor who for many a day, 
Through changing climes his homeward progress 

Marks duly on his chart the vessel's way, 
And still rejoices as the line extends ; 
Altho* that line for many a league has passed, 
Through an unvaried dull and trackless waste. 

But should some pleasant object, cape or isle, 
In lovely nature's verdant livery rise, 
Where cheering marks of habitations smile, 
And once more gladden his long wearied eyes, 
Still on the scene delighted will he dwell, 
He almost thinks it is the home he loves so well, 


So many a tedious hour I count away, 
Of dull uninteresting listless time, 
Yet glad to hope that every passing day, 
Brings me still nearer to the western clime, 
And as upon the formost prow I stand, 
I catch the earliest gleam that marks the shadowy 

But when this day returns, another year, 

Of nuptial happiness and home-felt bliss, 

Upon my memory rises, and tho' dear 

They all have been, yet none more dear than this, 

That gave me with my inmost love to twine 

The youngest blossom of my darling nine. 

Take dearest Harriet now the seventeenth time 
The homely offerings of my grateful heart, 
Tho' clad in halting verse and uncouth rhyme, 
You value them beyond the pride of art ; 
To you they breathe of truth and happy days, 
And humble thanks to God and everlasting praise. 

Oh ! if he will, our nineteenth wedding day, 
May be the subject of a distant song, 
A hope which hourly sheds a brighter ray, 
And helps with steadier steps our course along, 
That ere two summers pass our feet may rest, 
In the green vallies of the lovely west. 

July 23rd, 1826. 

And now another year has rolled along, 
And my loved Harriet adds another gem, 
To those that decorate my annual song ; 
A song tho' rude, yet dear to her and them. 


Another year beneath this fervid sky, 
Chequered abroad, of peace and love at home, 
Of blessings deeply felt, of cares that fly, 
As light and transient as the ocean form. 

Pass but another year and we may share, 
With all our loved ones under milder skies, 
Dear Devon's verdant lawns and balmy air ; 
That now each hour in nearer prospect rise. 

Heaven speed that happy hour to crown our toil, 
Requiting as for many an anxious day, 
When those dear eyes again on us shall smile, 
And those dear lips our kisses shall repay. 

Yes, dearest Harriet, upon hopes like these, 
In humble confidence our views we rest, 
On these our wishes fly beyond the seas, 
And look for quiet in the lovely west. 

That Heaven may speed that hour let us implore. 
And tho' the scene of many a happy year, 
Without regret we leave this sultry shore, 
Nor give Ceylon the tribute of a tear. 

On the Illness of King George III. 

Written in Dublin, 1788. 

The voice of joy is silent ! O'er the plains, 
Where harmony and mirthful innocence, 
Late tuned the vocal reed, — see black dispair, 
Crawl from his horrid den ; unwilling quite 
To leave the loathsome hole, yet goaded forth 
By sharp anxiety's tormenting sting, 
Fast urging onward to the thorny seat, 


Of certain Grief, who sits enthroned far 
In the bleak wilds, where sad Misfortune reigns. 
The heavens themselves restrain the plenteous tears 
Which used to fall, when death's destructive darts, 
Envenomed new by Autumn's poisoned air, 
Swept off the thousands to his dark abode. 
The tearful clouds in dread suspense are held, 
And universal nature seems to pause, 
Till sable Eurus, blacker than of yore, 
Shall waft the certain news of joy or grief, 
For the loved Father of his people lies, 
Distressed by sharp disease, whose cankering tooth 
Preys on his intellect : unconscious now, 
Of that dear love his goodness long has gained, 
He counts the sad and sleepless hours away, 
Or fired with passion, breaks the brittle bonds, 
Of Sacred Reason ; then with rage fatigued, 
Fore-spent with violence, sinks down again, 
And darts a ray of sense. Wide o'er his realms, 
The cheerful light awakens hope, and calls 
The flash of joy from every sparkling eye.- — 
So the fierce tempests o'er some verdant plain, 
Collect their sable troops — from every side, 
In dark solemnity they come, — and now 
The prospect blackens round, — ^the whistling winds, 
Proud of their strength begin to roar, — down falls 
The piercing sleet or driving snow, they rage 
Long time unchecked, till in his native strength, 
Sol darts a genial ray, the saddened plains 
Brighten with verdure, and the cheering green 
Flows o'er the distant lawns, then fades again, 
The momentary beam, and all is night ! ! 


Ode to Poverty. 

March, 1789. 

Tremendous power, whose grievous chain, 

Half naked limbs and chilling mien, 

Can o'er the Sons of Poesy prevail : 

Thou tyrant by thy subjects feared, 

No temple to thy name is reared, 

But the dark horrors of a gloomy goal. 

When the sweet monarch of the tuneful nine, 

Was erst reduced to tend Thessalian kine, 

Eternal enmity to thee he swore, 

And thence the dread resolve imprest, 

On every future poet's breast, 

Which age succeeding age confirms the more ; 

But thou fierce power, with rankling hatred torn. 

Cast on his threats reproach and scorn, 

And as to mock his firm decree, 

And ridicule his enmity, 

Hast chained the infant bard as soon as born. 

While then the favorites of the nine, 

Under thy chilling influence pine, 

Yet still immortal fame embalms the song. 

To distant times our memory lives, 

And though no generous patron gives, 

Yet all revere the tuneful throng. 

Descend my muse, in clouds of smoke 

Enwrap't, for want of other cloak, 

Though far more grateful to my eyes, 

The fragrant vapours rise, 

Which from a fat sir loin ascend, 

And while they column to the skies, 

To the pleased scent, a feast voluptuous lend. 

While through the clattering broken pane, 

The zephyrs moist with drizzling rain, 

Search the lone corner where I sit, 


By the small taper's trembling light, 
Aided by fancy's power, I write, 
Satire or praise, morality or w r it, 
Alack what noise is this ? — it is the muse, 
Breathing sweet odours of Olympian dews, 
She comes to fire my lyric strain ! 
Ah no ! it is a fierce relentless dun, 
Infernal Plutus' stern obdurate son. 
Where shall I run 

To avoid his strong enslaving gripe ? 
Ah now the noise approaches nigh, 
Whither, ah whither, shall I fiy, 
I smell the perfume of his sooty pipe ; 
Ah Fancy, motley daughter of the brain, 
Why dost thou these ideal terrors feign ? 
'Twas but grimalkin with her captive prey, 
That o'er the smoky rafters took her way, 
And tossed the wretched mouse, in fierce vindic- 
tive play : 
But see my taper tremblingly expire ; 
Dark is my dwelling, silent be my Lyre. 

On The King's Birth-day. 

June, 4, 1 792, 

While panting nations pause for breath, 

And Discord's throat has ceased to roar, 

While bending o'er the field of death, 

Stands Gallia, grim with human gore ; 

The muse with honor, turns th' averted eye, 

No more she views the sanguined plains, 

A nobler theme demands her grateful strains, 

The praise of George the good and virtuous liberty. 


Happy nation's glorious king, 

While howling tempests tear th' neighbouring coast 

Where hope and fear for ever on the wing, 

Flit thro' the troubled air, and vex each hostile host, 

The sister islands lift their heads in peace ; 

And tho' the storms of war in angry chase, 

Yell round their ears, in vain the hell hounds roar, 

'Gainst Albion's chalky cliffs or Erin's verdant shore. 

Mirth and frolic haste to me, 

Sons of joy, and sons of glee, 

In mutual gladness now your voices raise, 

In songs of love, and songs of praise. 

Let our thanks ascend the skies, 

Let George's name be heard around, 

Until the sound 

Shall rise to join celestial harmonies; 

So shall the universal orbit sing 

With praises of our honor' d king. 

CARE, an ODE. 
Sept. 1796. 

' ' Hence, busy Phantom, and be still, 
" Why wilt thou thus my peace destroy, 
" Anticipating future ill, 
" Embittering every present joy. 

" Where e'er I turn, where e'er I tread, 
" Thy form incessant meets my eye, 
" Abroad, at home, awake, abed, 
" In vain to shun that form I try." 

" Beware," the Phantom cries, beware, 
" Nor thus avoid thy truest friend, 
" Thou canst not fly me, I am Care, 
" And still must on thy steps attend. 


1 Though in the ruby swelling bowl, 
f( Thou wouldst thine anxious spirit steep, 
" Still would I haunt thy wakeful soul, 
'* My power will chase the power of sleep. 

' ' Though thou shouldst seek the splendid scenes, 
" Of midnight mirth, and noisy joy ; 
" Thy heart shall wear my clanking chains, 
" And with their sound, thy mirth annoy. 

1 ' Not even the discord of the bar, 
* ' Shall my incessant whispers drown, 
" Though clamourous be the wordy war, 
" And endless be the silken gown. 

" For shame, shalt thou sit idly here, 

" And thus thy early youth consume, 

" Without some pleasing hope to cheer, 

" And lead thee through life's thickest gloom. 

" Is not all Europe roused to arms, 
" And does thy swelling heart beat high, 
" Have robes, or silken gowns, no charms, 
' ' Thy ardent soul to gratify." 

" Alas though Europe gleams in arms," 
(Roused by this last reproach, I cry,) 
M Though robes and silken gowns have charms 
" Ambitious souls to gratify. 

" To me, capricious Fate denies, 
" To seek for honors in the field, 
" Nor can I bid my hopes arise, 
1 ' The thunder of the bar to wield. 

1 ■ Since hapless love, and sad despair, 

" Against my peace combine, 

1 { For 1 must call Eliza fair, 

M And never hope to call her mine. 


" But hark, I hear the hostile sound, 
" Now roars the dreadful drum, 
" The Gallic foe, our shore has found, 
" The robbers of the world are come. 

" Away, ye slothful robes of peace, 
" To warlike trappings yield, 
" Your idle clamour, gownsmen, cease, 
" And hurry to the field. 

" There let me, rushing on the foe, 

" Where full and fiercely glows the strife, 

" At once my miseries forego, 

" And end my cares and end my life." 

May \Wi, 1797. 

(When on duty with the Lawyers' Cavalry.) 


The weary circuit of the night is o'er, 
The sleepy guard strolls homeward to his bed ; 
While bright Aurora on the eastern shore, 
Dapples the early clouds with glowing red. 


(Oft through the night, I cast an upward eye, 
While o'er the pavement clicked the frequent hoof ; 
To watch the chamber where my love might lie, 
And call down blessings on her happy roof.) 



To calmer, happier minds I leave repose, 
And wander pensive to the silent plains ; 
The splendid Sun in golden lustre glows, 
And the shrill lark pours out his matin strains. 

The homely linnet swells his grateful throat, 
The glossy black-bird echoes thro* the grove; 
The pye's loud chattering, and the cuckoo's note, 
Join in the blissful harmony of love. 


Soft is the breath of morn — the vernal rose, 
That hides her meek head from the vulgar gaze ; 
Now her pale bosom to the sun-beam shews, 
And drinks the liquid glory of his rays. 

The flaunting wall-flower streaked with many an 

The stocks dark purple, and the tulip's bloom; 
The yellow jonquil and the violet blue, 
Fill all around with beauty and perfume. 

Ah why when nature spreads such music round, 
Does my dull heart in sullen discord sigh ; 
When such gay colours paint the smiling ground, 
Why swells the tear of sadness in mine eye. 

When last with joy, I hailed the coming spring, 
(Twelve tedious moons have since revolved away ;) 
How pleased was I to hear the black-bird sing, 
Or the blithe lark proclaim the opening day. 



Then light and jocund o'er the painted fields, 
I gaily roved — from love's dominion free ; 
Then every charm that bounteous nature yields, 
Gladdened my heart, and was a charm to me. 


Until (vain fool) I thought Eliza smiled, 

'I hen swelled my breast with hopes delightful dream; 

The sweet delusion every sense beguiled, 

And soon my heart acknowledged love supreme. 


Eat fancy raised me to a giddy height, 
To dash me down-ward with more grievous foil ; 
To hurl my young hopes into blacker night, 
While my vain sighs upon Eliza call. 


For with averted eye and chilling mem, 
She turns disdainful from my anxious sighs ; 
Or in her looks indignant scorn is seen, 
And anger flashes from her radiant eyes. 

How can I then the smiling morning hail, 
Or taste the soft breath of the opening spring ; 
Catch the sweet perfume rising on the gale, 
Or joy to hear the glossy black-bird sing. 

But dead to nature's charms — to all but love, 
I wander pensive o'er the lonely plains ; 
Unmoved, unjoyed, through painted fields I rove, 
And with a dull ear hear the black-bird's strains. 




Yes I must ever love the moon's soft beam, 
When first she rises o'er yon eastern hill ; 
And every rude discordant sound is still, 
Whether she tip the trees with scanty light, 
Or through the foliage pours her silver stream ; 
For 'twas at such a time, on such a night, 
That wrapt in fancy's most delicious dream, 
I saw Eliza — heard her softly speak, 
In sweetest chiding to my eager love ; 
While not a whispering zephyr dared to move 
The tresses spread upon her blushing cheek ; 
And though her looks were seeming to reprove, 
Yet did our hands in trembling union meet, 
And feel our conscious hearts in throbs responsive 

>+ • » ■ 


May, 1803. 

Flown are my dreams of joy — and hope is vain, 
Vain every effort — vain each fond endeavour ; 
My anxious humble wishes to explain, 
And I must bid — alas! — farewell for ever. 

Yet justly from presumptuous hopes I fall, 

Since blind with love, with ardent passion burning ; 

In that bright eye, which kindly beamed on all, 

My fancy found a smile that love returning. 


Cruel mistake. Ah ! why did I aspire, 
To seek a heart which owned a happier lover ; 
Why ere I fanned the still consuming fire, 
Did not my fears the dreadful truth discover. 

Ah w T hy — but let me not obtrude my woes, 
Upon those eyes so cruel, yet so tender ; 
My grief should interrupt not her repose, 
My misery should not her less happy render. 

From my presumption, all my miseries spring, 
And to my hapless fate I yield — and never 
May such a pang Eliza's bosom wring, 
As that with which I bid — farewell for ever. 



June, 1803. 

To die — and with me to the silent tomb, 
Bring the last relic of an ancient name ; 
To plunge its honours in oblivion's gloom, 
No more to start forth at the call of Fame. 

To see myself the last of all my race, 
No child to honour, and no wife to love ; 
No son in whom my lineaments to trace, 
No daughter's eye my fond caress to prove. 

But joy~le?s, solitary, still to pine, 
To waste in aches and pangs the fretful day ; 
To snatch a short forgetfulness from wine, 
And with a sad heart labour to be gay. 

Is this to be my lot— has Heaven designed, 
An heart disposed for love, to waste alone, 
Has Providence bestowed a liberal mind, 
To seek no creature's well -fare but mine own? 


Ah no ! I feel my anxious heart expand, 
And ask a partner all its joys to share ; 
Its ceaseless throbs a kindred heart demand, 
Ah ! would that kindred heart attend its prayer. 


The crowned heads since the conquest who ruled 

this good nation, 
Lately quitted their graves for a jollification ; 
The shades had a supper on one of our coasts, 
And the waiters were pot-bellied beef-eaters ghosts. 

Luna shone out above them to scatter the dark, 
As they sat on the sands above high water mark, 
For the tide though Canute bade it stop they were 

Splashed His Majesty's small clothes, and gave 

him a cold. 

These defunct Kings and Queens had a worm- 
eaten train, 

Of the Statesmen, Wits, Heroes, and toasts of each 

Thus Elizabeth, Burleigh and Bacon brought in, 

Charles the Second made Rochester come with 
Nell Gwyn. 

The chair, Norman Billy the Conqueror claimed, 
For putting out candles at eight o'clock famed ; 
But we 're ghosts now said Billy, and midnights 

our own, 
And I cannot toll curfew to put out the moon. 


King Rufus desired that no venison they'd put en, 
For when hunting it last he was killed dead as 

Bring no lampreys says Henry the First for alack, 
They killed me about seven hundred years back. 

When King Stephen bade Thomas-a-Becket say 

King Henry the second made up a wry face, 
While Dick Cceur de Lion not caring a damn, 
Like a Lion attacked a whole quarter of lamb. 

King John growing tipsy cried lets have a toast, 
Bring the best magnum bonum Old England can 

The best magnum bonum his barons could find, 
Was his own Magna Charta at Runnimede signed. 

Harries, Edwards, and Richards, the last of them 

Fuddled noses together till some appeared grumpy ; 
For the York apparitions drank white wine 'tis 

While the Lancaster ghosts would touch nothing 

but red. 

For the Roses cried Henry the Seventh I entwine 'em 
And like port mixed with sherry in marriage I 

join 'em ; 
Marriage Henry the Eighth said a good thing of 

course is, 
But two other good things are Jack Ketch and 


King Edward the Sixth with the rest did not sup, 
For a boy of sixteen was too young to sit up; 
But Queen Mary was there to our annals a blotch, 
And Queen Bess with her ruff, and King J^mes 
with his Scotch. 


Charles the First, but the dew falling thick on the 

Seemed the tears of our Isle for his murder of 

Charles the Second wept too, nought could com- 
fort afford him, 

Till a bumper, like General Monk, had restored 

A card of excuse came from Jamie the Second, 
But the party had scarce on his company reckon 5 d, 
For paler than lemons he fled from his throne, 
And the Oranges instantly made it their own. 

The Third William stood forward sans circumlo- 

To drink to the memory of our famed revolution ; 

Cried Queen Ann still may Britons the Ocean 

And ere long may a Marlborough march on French 

As the spirits broke up ere the sun shed his rays, 
To the shades of two Georges they gave loud 

Through the rocks the loud echo of Brunswick 

was heard, 
Long live England's Monarch, God bless George 

the Third, 



Bard of undying fame whose magic lyre 
Through many an age still yields its notes of fire, 
Thy name ilium' d by genius' brightest rays 
Needs not the tribute of a meaner praise : 
Yet if each heart- string give its fond applause, 
Tis but the echo which thy music draws, 
Nor can each bard the voice of praise refrain, 
But brings the offering tho' but weak the strain; 
In the fall chorus notes so low as mine 
Must die unheard, and yet the tribute line 
E'en from my harp sweet Shakspeare shall be 

Thy muse was nature who by Avon's stream, 

Smil'd on her slumbering child's enchanted dream; 

Unveil'd the mystic grandeur of her face, 

And bade thee copy every secret grace. 

And whilst thou trembled at the high command 

Truth lent her pencil to thy doubtful hand, 

Taught thee to seize each line, each varying hue, 

Until to life the perfect portrait grew, 

Which still our hearts acknowledge, as we view. 

But frolic Fancy saw with envious eyes, 

Colors so bright adorn realities, 

And lur'd thee far away to fairy bowers 

Where elfin revels speed Titania's hours ; 

Where spells are ambush'd in each flow'ret fair, 

That breathes its odours to the midnight air. 

Then led thee far o'er yet untravelled seas, 

To that lone isle whose music haunted breeze 

Fanned bright Miranda's brow, its lovely queen, 

Fair as the pearls in ocean caves unseen, 

The spell girt shore by magic links enchained, 

The spirit peopled realm where Prosper reigned : 


Scenes of the south to which its sunny heaven 

A bright mythology has smiling given. 

But thou hast followed far thine airy guide 

To northern climes where gloomier phantoms glide, 

The blasted heath, the tempest darken'd skies, 

Where the wier'd sisters bid their spirits rise ; 

The pallid moon to deeper paleness fright 

Reluctant witness of each horrid rite ; 

Drag unborn ages from the womb of time, 

And beckon onwards through red gulfs of crime, 

To blood bought honors the ambitious Thane, 

Till ruin closes o'er his meteor reign. 

Oh vain the crown that so much guilt has bought, 

The dream'd of joys its splendor has not brought ; 

In vain the board with festive gladness spread, 

A sudden gloom is o'er that banquet shed; 

But 'twas not fancy's spell that bade arise 

Th' avenging spectre to the murderers eyes ; 

'Twas nature lent the lamp, and bade thee mark 

The deep recesses of a heart so dark ; 

Where throned like nightmare on his troubled 

Remorse has doomed him never more to rest; 
While pallid Fear to execute the doom 
Evokes her spectres from their gory tomb. 
E'en thus, when Fancy's power had bodied forth 
The royal Dane revisiting the earth, 
'Twas nature bade thee trace o'er Hamlet's mind 
The sad eclipse that phantom left behind. 
To critic laws let other Poets bend, 
In tears begin the scene, in sorrow end, 
But nature's guidance taught her Shakspeare'* 

To range the smile and tear in rainbow band ; 
We jest with Beatrice, but mourn the wrongs 
Of Hero " done to death by sland'rous tongues. " 
In Ardennes groves let Jacques give the tear 
To human misery or the stricken deer, 


They 're brighten* d by the gems of wit that shine 
On the young brow of lovely Rosaline. 
But though no classic rules thy pages own, 
Though classic lore to thee was all unknown, 
Yet painted here in colors sternly true 
The haughty Roman frowns upon our view ; 
The banished Marcus thirsting for a flood 
To slake his burning ire of Roman blood. 
Butlo! the suppliant female train appears 
'Tis quenched far better in a mother's tears. 
The sterner Brutus whose unyielding hand 
Guides towards his victim friend the murderous 

la vain affection in his heart would plead 
At freedom's altar must that victim bleed. 
That blood stain'd idol through whose empty name 
So many crimes the page of history shame. 
Yes, darker tales than ever fiction told, 
Of deeper interest can that page unfold. 
The muse of history on her brow may bind 
The cypress wreath with laurels fair entwined, 
And there may Shakspeare weave with skilful 

The fairest flowers that bloom in fairy land ; 
From where tradition's doubtful light is cast 
Shrouded by mists that veil the shadowy past ; 
The crownless king, the worse than childless sire* 
Outraves the war of winds, the tempest's ire ; 
To where the torch of history burns more clear 
Like Banquo's mirrored race our kings appear. 
The voice of weeping o'er her captive child 
Despairing Constance mourns in accents wild. 
Yet when those bitter drops of grief were shed 
She dream'd not where the helpless boy was led ; 
The dungeon solitude, more hideous made 
When ruffian forms its echoing walls invade ; 
She did not hear the tyrant's stern command 
Nor view the glowing steel, th' uplifted hand; 


Oh had they been to those sad eyes reveaTd 
Death would have pitied, and her lids have sealed, 
She had not lived to know what strong defence 
Are childhood's prayers and gentle innocence. — 
Through the tumultuous city's joyous throng 
Proud Bolingbroke triumphant sweeps along ; 
To grace that triumph and to glut that pride 
His captive monarch sorrows at his side ; 
Bends 'neath the weight of grief his sacred head, 
Denied with dust, and feels that hope is fled ; 
All weep with him, but who refuse to smile 
When FalstafTs jests the midnight hours beguile; 
Tho' wisdom mourns amid that thoughtless band 
To mark the future ruler of the land. — 
But what are these mere scattered stars enroll'd 
In the bright galaxy I leave untold ; 
Far brighter strains their varied splendors ask 
Sweet Shak^peare, I resign the unequal task ; 
The only incense that should cloud thy shrine 
Demands a kindling torch as bright as thine. 

[I. F.] 


Dear relic of the noblest mind, 
The kindest heart the purest worth ; 
Oh vainly may we hope to find, 
Another such on earth. 

Too early lost, unknown too long, 
Yet prized and loved so well ; 
Dearest of shades evoked among 
My thoughts by memory's epelL 



I lov'd thee with a daughter's love, 
Though I might never share, 
By the high will of Him above, 
Thy fondness and thy care. 

Wide were the waves that roll'd between 
Our hearts that throVd to meet; 
But darker gulfs now intervene, 
Since thine has ceased to beat. 


Thy children hoped those wild waves should 
The exile home have borne ; 
Now thou hast past the gloomy flood, 
Whence bark may ne'er return. 

The star of hope whose morning ray, 
Brighten' d our early years, 
Has usher' d in a sunless day, 
Dark with despairing tears. 

But is for ever set that star, 
And lost the hope it gave ? 
Ah no ! we hail it from afar, 
It shines beyond the grave. 

It tells us that thy spirit free, 
Has burst its earthly chain, 
That though awhile in fetters we 
Must sorrowing here remain, 



Yet when we pass death's dark abyss, 
Thou'lt greet us on that shore, 
Where hope is lost in perfect bliss, 
And sorrow known no more. 

Can thought of earthly weal or woe, 
On that repose intrude, 
Still for thy children canst thou feel, 
A fond solicitude? 

Our hearts cling to the dear belief, 
While lonely pilgrims here, 
Where every step is marked with grief,. 
That dream has power to cheer. 


Oh view our smiles too transient spark, 
Our tears unnumbered see, 
Our feeble efforts gladly mark 
To lead a life like thee. 


Like thine may be our death, an end 
To every shade of gloom, 
Sweetened by hope of such a friend, 
To greet beyond the tomb. 

[I. FO 



Oh thou whose everlasting love, 
Pours down all blessings from above, 
Hear while the voice of humble praise, 
To thine eternal throne I raise ; 
This day on which thy goodness gave 
The dearest joy I have on earth, 
Save hope of those beyond the grave, 
This day which saw my darling's birth. 

And oh when gazing on her sleeping, 
With love and grateful gladness weeping, 
I think how few short months are fled, 
Since watching by her restless bed, 
The fevered start, the wandering eyes, 
How must 1 praise that pitying power, 
Who heard my weak despairing cries, 
And spared me in that fearful hour. 

Yes ! lov'd one, thou art slumbering now, 

No cloud upon thy bright young brow, 

Fresh on thy pillow- cheek the rose, 

In calm and beautii*ul repose, 

As if some angel's wing were near, 

Fanning all evil things away, 

Or happy dreams had led thee dear, 

Amid lost Eden's bowers to play. 

Ah ! dreams indeed, for thou art still 
A fallen child, an heir of ill, 
One who will learn in after years, 
To steep her couch in midnight tears, 


Such drops if now those dear eyes shed, 
Thy Mother's lips would kiss away ; 
When I am numbered with the dead, 
Ah who will then thy griefs allay. 

What eye will watch so fondly o'er thee, 
What heart ere feel as mine does for thee, 
Alas, though dearer far to thine, 
There'll none return a love like mine; 
Here darling thou may'st nestle now, 
When childhood's transient griefs molest, 
The day may come thy drooping brow, 
Will ache in vain for such a rest. 

Time on his dark funereal wing, 
Will sin and strife and sorrow bring, 
Thy comfort seeking glance may find, 
But the cold blight of looks unkind, 
Thy spirit like the Patriarch's dove, 
May long in vain seek rest below, 
Alas we seldom seek above, 
Till school' d by many a bitter woe. 

Might I be spared till reason's ray, 
First o'er thy morn of mind should play, 
And be with strength divine supplied, 
Heaven-ward thy infant thoughts to guide, 
To mark thy joy, thy listning eye, 
Melt into bright and holy tears, 
Then lift its prayerful glance on high, 
Oh that would calm my anxious fears. 

O Lord, on all thy mercies past, 
Should not my faith her anchor cast, 
And tho' the rugged path I dread, 
My darling's feet through life must tread, 


Trust that her Saviour will be near, 
To shield her from the tempter's snares, 
With heavenlv light the way to cheer, 
With love divine to sooth her cares. 

Oh let me trust like her who stood, 
In the old time by Egypt's flood, 
And trembling, yet confiding gave, 
Her cherished treasure to the wave : 
Thou who didst keep that fragile bark. 
My treasure's guardian deign to be. 
Watch o'er my helpless little bark r 
Just launched on life's tempestuous sea. 

Methinks I hear those accents mild, 
Thy welcome to each blessed child, 
By Salem's daughters brought to thee, 
" Oh suffer such to come to me;" 
And wilt thou not my child receive, 
In thine eternal arms to rest, 
Ah yes ! in hope assur'd I live, 
I know her safe, I know her blest. 

[I- FO 

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